THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


A  WEEK  ON  THE   CONCORD 
AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS 


THE  MODERN 
STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

EACH  VOLUME  EDITED  BY  A  LEADING 
AMERICAN  AUTHORITY 

WILL  D.  HOWE,  General  Editor 

This  series  is  composed  of  such  works  as 
are  conspicuous  in  the  province  of  literature 
for  their  enduring  influence.  Every  volume 
is  recognized  as  essential  to  a  liberal  edu- 
cation'and  will  tend  to  infuse  a  love  for  true  . 
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ties which  cause  it  to  endure. 

A  descriptive  list  of  the  volumes  published  in 

this  series  appears  in  the  last  pages 

of  this  volume 

CHARLES  SCRIBNEIVS  SONS 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 
AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS 

BY 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 


EDITED  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 
BY 

ODELL  SHEPARD 

JAMES  J.   GOODWIN   PROFESSOR   OF   ENGLISH 
%S  TRINITT   COIiLEGE,   CONNECTICUT 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  BOSTON 


^ 


,< 


&» 


Copyright,  1921,  bt  ^^ 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


%& 


\^ 


THE  SCRIBNER   PRESS 


TO 

BLISS  PERRY 

CONNOISSEUR  IN   LETTERS,   RIVERS, 
AND  LITTLE  TOWNS 


soot, 


>  i  - 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Concord  River       1 

Saturday       6 

Sunday 27 

Monday 83 

Tuesday 130 

Wednesday 173 

Thursday      . 221 

Friday 247 


INTRODUCTION 

Among  the  belongings  of  Henry  David  Thoreau  which  are 
shown  to  the  visitor  in  Concord  —  his  bed,  his  chair  and 
writing-desk,  his  quill,  and  the  buckskin  suit  given  him  by 
an  Indian  friend  —  is  a  curious  walking-stick  which  was  cut 
from  a  cherry  tree  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago  by  a  man  who 
knew  how  to  use  a  jack-knife.  There  are  few  pieces  of  dead 
wood  that  one  would  give  more  to  possess.  It  has  gone 
walking  with  Emerson  and  Hawthorne;  it  has  "travelled 
much  in  Concord,"  as  also  in  Sudbury,  Lincoln,  Acton, 
Carlisle,  and  Billerica;  it  may  have  climbed  Monadnock 
or  tapped  its  way  through  the  Tuckerman  Ravine;  it  has 
been  intimate  with  a  man  who  allowed  few  intimacies,  and 
that  in  his  best  moments,  when  he  was  alone  in  swamp  or 
forest  or  out  with  the  moon  at  midnight  listening  to  the 
baying  of  dogs  in  distant  farmsteads. 

Despite  these  noble  memories,  however,  it  is  a  very  ordi- 
nary walking-stick,  except  in  the  particular  that  it  has  been 
whittled  flat  along  one  side  and  notched  to  the  length  of 
twenty-four  inches.  Here,  indeed,  is  a  peculiarity.  Usually, 
when  one  takes  his  walking-stick  from  the  corner,  he  slams 
the  door  on  mathematics  and  cuts  across  lots,  content  to 
measure  his  distances  by  simple  fatigue  and  hunger  and  thirst. 
But  here  is  a  stick  which  combines  rambling  with  routine. 
It  can  measure  a  mountain  or  a  field-mouse.  It  can  either 
ignore  boundaries  or  make  them.  It  is,  in  short,  a  most 
self-contradictory,  paradoxical  stick,  and  a  perfect  repre- 
sentative, therefore,  of  the  vagabond-surveyor  who  cut  and 
carried  it. 

What  were  the  gods  about  when  they  condemned  this 
dreamer,  this  leaper  of  fences,  this  scorner  of  property,  to 
earn  his  livelihood  by  surveying  other  men's  woodlots? 
Hear  the  man  whose  name  is  set  down  on  one  of  the  best 
maps  of  Concord  as  "H.  D.  Thoreau,  Civ.  Eng1"."  sighing 

vii 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

for  "a  people  who  would  begin  by  burning  the  fences  and 
letting  the  forest  stand!"  In  a  vision  of  the  night  he  sees 
"the  fences  half  consumed,  and  some  worldly  miser  with 
a  surveyor  looking  after  his  bounds,  while  heaven  had  taken 
place  around  him.  ...  I  looked  again  and  saw  him  stand- 
ing in  a  boggy  Stygian  fen,  surrounded  by  devils,  and  he 
had  found  his  bounds  without  a  doubt,  —  three  little  stones 
where  a  stake  had  been  driven.  And  I  saw  that  the  Prince 
of  Darkness  was  his  surveyor." 

And  yet,  although  the  fact  has  seldom  been  recognized 
by  those  who  can  see  in  him  only  a  misanthropic  lover  of 
the  wild,  Thoreau  was  quite  as  much  interested  in  fences  as 
he  was  in  forests.  He  could  never  decide  between  the  two. 
As  in  the  America  of  his  day  the  ancient  warfare  of  forests 
and  fences  went  ceaselessly  on,  so  in  his  mind.  It  was  no 
condemnation  of  the  gods,  it  was  not  chance  or  fate  or  poverty 
or  any  external  compulsion  whatsoever,  but  just  the  conflict 
of  two  deadly  opposites  deep-rooted  in  his  mind,  which 
drove  Thoreau  from  forests  to  fences,  from  dreams  to  mathe- 
matics, and  back  again.  The  more  one  knows  of  him  the 
less  one  feels  inclined  to  say  whether  he  was  more  at  home, 
was  more  content,  with  a  theodolite  or  with  a  pen.  When 
the  pen  mood  was  on  him,  as  we  have  seen,  he  could  damn 
the  theodolite  and  all  its  works;  but  we  shall  never  know 
what  he  thought  and  felt  of  his  rambling  inaccurate  pen. 
when  the  surveyor  had  his  innings.  Like  all  his  brother 
Transcendentalists,  he  was  a  lover  of  the  hazy  and  ill-defined, 
and  he  was  a  master  of  hyperbole.  Unlike  most  of  them, 
he  was  a  lover  and  master  of  accurate  processes  as  well. 
Certainly  his  herbarium,  which  now  gathers  dust  in  the 
Concord  Public  Library,  —  orderly,  neat,  exact,  and  well- 
nigh  exhaustive  for  his  neighborhood  —  is  not  the  least 
impressive  and  characteristic  of  his  works.  He  was  an 
impassioned  measurer  and  gauger,  and  he  caught  his  death 
in  a  way  as  significant  as  that  of  Francis  Bacon,  while  count- 
ing the  growth  rings  on  felled  timber.  He  never  decided 
which  is  the  better  and  more  direct  approach  to  nature's 
arcana,  —  re  very  or  algebra.  After  he  had  tried  and  failed 
to  express  Walden  Pond  in  mystic  dithyrambs,  he  went 
at  it  again  with  logarithms  and  plumb-line.  To  the  ill- 
regulated  geniuses  who  lived  about  him  he  seemed  a  marvel 
of  manual  dexterity,  of  routine,  of  purposeful  activity.    He 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

drove  a  nail  more  deftly  than  he  ever  did  a  paragraph,  and 
he  would  have  scorned  to  own  a  boat  with  such  seams  as 
yawn  in  all  but  one  or  two  of  his  essays.  There  was  some- 
thing lost  as  well  as  something  gained  when  Thoreau  turned 
aside  from  the  delving,  building,  bridging  work  of  America 
in  his  generation  to  toy  with  pen  and  paper  at  Concord. 
In  the  terms  of  the  alchemists,  however,  the  corruption  of 
an  engineer  was  the  making  of  a  poet,  —  and  possibly  the 
best  poets  are  those  who  have  wanted  to  be  something  else, 
but  could  not. 

Surely  the  gods  must  have  prepared  themselves  for  amuse- 
ment when  they  confined  a  Yogee  and  a  Yankee,  a  mystic 
and  a  mathematician,  a  seer  and  a  surveyor,  in  one  human 
skin.  Undoubtedly  there  was  something  grandly  humorous 
in  the  combination,  — 

"Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 
To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man  I" 

Up  from  the  conflict  thus  foreordained  in  Thoreau  rose  the 
bubbles  of  his  perennial  paradox.  Thence  came  all  his 
weathercock  mood's  and  fancies.  All  his  life  long,  the  car- 
penter kept  up  with  the  poet  in  him  an  endless  colloquy,  of 
which  the  twenty  volumes  of  his  published  works  are  a 
stenographic  report.  All  his  life,  Thoreau  the  vagabond 
rambled  about  with  a  walking-stick,  but  Thoreau  the  sur- 
veyor used  it  as  a  measuring  rod. 

How  much  can  be  done  with  a  measuring  rod  two  feet  in 
length  depends  upon  the  imagination  and  the  mathematics 
of  the  man  who  carries  it.  Just  here  it  is  well  to  remember 
that  the  central  and  most  remarkable  thing  about  Thoreau 
was  his  ability  to  make  a  very  little  go  a  very  great  way. 
New  England  thrift  found  in  this  man,  whose  "greatest 
wealth  was  to  want  but  little,"  a  more  shining  example 
than  even  in  Benjamin  Franklin.  "Economy"  is  his  most 
characteristic  essay.  No  man  ever  scanned  his  pennyworth 
more  ( narrowly,  no  man  ever  drove  a  shrewder  Yankee 
bargain  with  the  world,  no  man  was  ever  framed  to  get  better 
service  out  of  a  two-foot  measure,  than  he.  Holding  his 
stick  at  arm's  length,  he  saw  that  it  was  taller  than  Monad- 
nock  and  longer  than  the  Milky  Way  —  of  course  because 


x  INTRODUCTION 

it  was  nearer  to  him  than  the  mountain  or  the  sky.  Thus 
he  learned  perspective.  What  was  near  at  hand,  however 
insignificant  in  appearance,  always  bulked  huge  and  momen- 
tous to  him ;  but  the  distances  dwindled  swiftly  to  a  point. 
He  kept  throughout  his  life  this  naive  innocence  of  the  eye, 
and  would  allow  no  intrusion  of  the  abstract  intelligence  to 
correct  its  simple  verdict.  He  needed  no  telescope  to  tell 
him  that  Orion  and  the  Pleiades  are  far  off  and  unimportant. 
What  he  wanted,  rather,  was  a  microscope  wherewith  to  go 
over  every  inch  of  Concord  township. 

Concord  itself  was  a  two-foot  measuring  rod,  as  he  knew 
well  enough,  but  he  held  it  up  at  arm's  length  against  Babylon 
and  Rome  and  dwarfed  them  to  a  speck.  Thoreau  was  the 
philosopher,  the  loudest-lunged  champion  of  the  little  town, 
and  also  its  masterpiece.  He  was  the  apotheosis  of  the 
provincial.  He  returned  from  the  forests  of  Maine  to  Box- 
boro  Wood,  from  the  White  Mountains  to  Nawshawtuct, 
and  from  the  ocean  to  Walden  Pond,  always  more  content 
with  the  scenes  which  his  infancy  knew.  His  patriotism, 
often  impugned,  was  of  that  focussed  and  localized  kind  now 
almost  forgotten  in  America ;  and  it  was  perhaps  the  more 
intense  for  being  somewhat  restringent .  All  his  triangulations 
were  calculated  with  the  main  street  of  his  village  as  a  base ; 
the  centre  of  all  his  circles  was  just  the  village  spire.  This 
meant,  at  the  least,  that  in  the  midst  of  a  nomadic 
and  deracinated  generation  Thoreau  had  a  centre  and  that 
his  triangulations  had  one  fixed  and  certain  term.  A  less 
fortunate  result  of  his  provincialism  is  seen  in  the  fact  that, 
living  in  an  intensely  political  generation,  he  had,  until  near 
the  end  of  his  life,  only  few  and  faint  political  interests. 
"What  is  called  politics,"  he  says,  "is  comparatively  so 
superficial  and  inhuman  that  practically  I  have  never  fairly 
recognized  that  it  concerns  me  at  all."  At  the  very  time 
when  all  foreign  travellers  in  the  United  States  were  exclaiming 
at  our  mania  for  news,  he  delivered  his  powerful  philippic 
against  the  newspaper  in  the  hardest-hitting  of  his  essays, 
Life  Without  Principle.  Thoreau  had  to  learn,  however, 
that  no  man  can  afford  to  neglect  the  Times  in  favor  of  the 
Eternities,  for  the  good  reason  that  there  is  no  clear  division 
between  the  two.  So  long  as  the  influence  of  slavery  came 
no  nearer  than  Boston,  he  was  not  much  concerned;  for 
Boston,  fifteen  miles  away,  had  always  been  a  foreign  city 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

to  him,  concerning  which  he  was  cheerfully  prepared  to  believe 
the  worst.  (He  almost  embraced  the  old  man  he  found  in 
Concord  who  had  never  been  there.)  But  when  he  saw  that 
his  own  town  could  not  escape  the  slimy  coils  of  this  evil 
thing,  he  was  instantly  on  the  alert.  Nothing  Concordian 
was  alien  to  him,  whether  it  happened  in  Main  Street  or 
in  Texas,  at  Walden  Pond  or  in  Central  Africa.  He  was 
sensitive  enough  to  all  that  touched  that  central  nerve. 
His  two  passionate  speeches  on  Civil  Disobedience  and  Slavery 
in  Massachusetts  are  political  enough  for  any  taste.  They 
reveal  a  mind  suddenly  made  aware  that  *  no  little  town 
liveth  unto  itself  alone,  but  they  illustrate  at  the  same  time 
a  phase  of  patriotic  feeling  in  comparison  with  which  our 
present  federalism  and  our  incipient  internationalism  are 
in  their  infancy.  In  those  speeches,  he  still  appealed  to  the 
ancient  ideals  of  town  government  as  axiomatic.  It  is 
worthy  of  note,  also,  that  when  he  went  to  jail  rather  than 
pay  a  small  tax  to  the  national  government  which  he  thought 
was  supporting  slavery,  he  cheerfully  paid  a  larger  tax  for  the 
maintenance  of  town  roads. 
v  Thoreau's  enduring  love  of  place  —  that  sentiment  from 
which  all  patriotism  springs  and  circles  outward  —  explains 
more  of  him  than  at  first  appears.  He  read  history  and 
politics,  Plato  and  Pliny,  Gilbert  White  and  William  Gilpin, 
in  the  light  of  Concord.  His  desire  to  make  a  complete 
inventory  of  the  town's  resources  was  possibly  antecedent 
even  to  that  passion  for  nature  by  which  he  is  chiefly  known, 
and  this  may  be  the  reason  why  he  "spoke  of  Nature  as 
though  she  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  Concord." 
His  provincialism  was  something  more  than  whim.  It 
had  elements  of  wisdom.  Concord  was  a  small  enough  part 
of  the  world  so  that  one  might  hope  to  learn  something  about 
it  in  a  lifetime ;  but  it  was  typical  of  all  the  rest.  The  man 
who  had  studied  religion  in  its  meeting-house,  law  in  its 
town  hall,  commerce  on  the  Musketaquid,  trade  on  Main 
Street,  and  society  —  far  too  much  of  society  —  in  its  every 
lane  and  road,  had  not  a  great  deal  to  learn  from  wider 
travels.  He  had  seen  the  elements.  The  great  world  could 
offer  him  nothing  but  empty  repetition.  The  story  is  well- 
known  that  Thoreau  returned  a  book  on  Arctic  exploration 
with  the  comment  that  most  of  the  phenomena  therein 
noted   might   be   observed   in   Concord.    He   might   have 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

returned  a  copy  of  Adam  Smith  or  of  Shakespeare  with  the 
same  remark. 

Thoreau  is  one  of  the  few  American  writers  who  have  had 
a  strong  sense  of  the  "spirit  of  place."  It  is  this,  in  no  small 
degree,  which  has  made  him  a  classic  and  which  will  pre- 
serve some  part  of  his  writings  as  The  Natural  History  and 
Antiquities  of  Selborne,  Our  Village,  Cranford,  Dreamthorpe, 
and  a  dozen  other  celebrations  of  insignificant  English  towns, 
have  been  preserved.  The  place  itself  may  be  as  dull  in 
outward  appearance  as  Drumtochty,  for  the  enthusiasm 
of  its  lover  is  all.  Thoreau  had  enthusiasm.  "I  think 
I  could  write  a  poem  to  be  called  Concord,"  he  says.  "For 
argument  I  have  the  River,  the  Woods,  the  Ponds,  the  Hills, 
the  Fields,  the  Swamps  and  Meadows,  the  Streets  and 
Buildings,  and  the  Villagers."  Well,  his  various  books  are 
the  rough  notes,  at  least,  for  such  a  poem.  He  begs  his 
friend  Ricketson,  who  is  writing  a  history  of  New  Bedford, 
to  "let  it  be  a  local  and  villageous  book.  That  is  the  good 
old-fashioned  way  of  writing,  as  if  you  actually  lived  where 
you  wrote."  Working  on  this  sound  theory,  Thoreau  him- 
self often  makes  us  hear  almost  the  very  throb  of  his  pulse, 
as  in  the  following  note  from  his  journal:  "I  am  living 
this  27th  of  June,  1847,  —  a  dull  cloudy  day  and  no  sun 
shining.  The  clink  of  the  smith's  hammer  sounds  feebly 
over  the  roofs,  and  the  wind  is  sighing  gently  as  if  dreaming 
of  cheerfuler  days.  The  farmer  is  plowing  in  yonder  fields, 
craftsmen  are  busy  in  the  shops,  the  trader  stands  up  in  the 
counter,  and  all  works  go  steadily  forward."  Is  there  not 
a  startling  actuality  in  these  words,  as  though  the  dead  man 
were  whispering  in  one's  ear?  Such  sentences,  like  a  few 
in  Samuel  Pepys,  seem  to  crumple  time  and  space. 

To  some  readers,  Thoreau's  boastful  provincialism  and 
his  professed  contempt  for  travel  may  seem  a  mere  crying 
of  sour  grapes.  From  James  Russell  Lowell's  essay  on 
Thoreau  —  which  ^some  one  has  called,  a  bit  too  harshly, 
"the  work  of  an  extraordinarily  brilliant  snob"  —  one  gets 
the  idea  that  the  man's  limitations  were  first  imposed  upon 
him  and  then  glorified  by  his  egotism.  This  is  the  view, 
plausible  enough  in  Boston,  which  assumes  that  all  men 
really  want  the  same  things  and  that  every  man  must  be 
bitterly  chagrined  who  does  not  get  these  things.  But  this 
has  never  been  the  Concord  view,  and  it  was  not  Thoreau's. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

"It  takes  a  man  of  genius,"  he  says,  "to  travel  in  his  own 
country,  in  his  native  village,  —  to  make  progress  between 
his  door  and  his  gate.  But  such  a  traveller  will  make  the 
distances  which  Hanno  and  Marco  Polo  and  Cook  and 
Ledyard  went  over  seem  ridiculous."  It  is  always  thus, 
with  a  courageous  and  admiring  eye  upon  his  own  limitations, 
that  he  makes  them  shine  with  the  lustre  of  peculiar  advan- 
tages. There  is  nothing  in  Fate's  quiver  that  can  harm  such 
a  man. 

No  one  need  hope  to  understand  Thoreau  who  does  not 
see  that  his  limitations  were,  for  the  most  part,  self-imposed. 
How  cheerfully,  at  all  events,  he  speaks  of  them!  "The 
old  coat  that  I  wear  is  Concord,"  he  writes  to  a  friend.  "It 
is  my  morning  robe  and  study  gown,  my  working  dress  and 
suit  of  ceremony.  And  it  will  be  my  nightgown  after  all." 
These  are  not  the  words  of  a  man  who  would  immediately 
rush  off  to  Europe  if  the  sinews  of  travel  were  provided. 
Neither  are  they  the  words  of  a  man  who  can  be  fairly  charac- 
terized by  any  amount  of  talk  about  his  "wildness."  There 
is  more  suggestion  of  the  fence  than  of  the  forest  in  Thoreau's 
devotion  to  Concord,  and  any  one  who  could  love  so  fondly 
a  little  town  —  surely  the  most  human  and  humanizing  of 
all  things  —  must  have  had  the  germs,  at  least,  of  civilization 
in  him.  Thoreau  was  Concord  in  a  human  form,  —  Concord 
writing  and  talking  and  walking  about,  —  and  in  the  solipsism 
which  fastened  upon  him  in  his  later  years  he  wrote :  "  These 
regular  phenomena  of  the  seasons  get  at  last  to  be  simply  and 
plainly  phenomena  of  my  own  life.  .  .  .  Almost  I  believe 
the  Concord  would  not  rise  and  overflow  its  banks,  were  I  not 
here."  The  same  note  is  struck  in  the  lines  written  many 
years  before: 

"I  was  born  on  thy  bank,  river, 
My  blood  flows  in  thy  stream, 
And  thou  meanderest  forever 
At  the  bottom  of  my  dream." 

With  such  passages  in  mind,  one  sees  that  the  trip  down  the 
Musketaquid  which  this  book  records  was  only  an  episode 
in  that  ceaseless  exploration  of  his  own  soul,  that  voyage  of 
self-discovery,  on  which  Thoreau  was  always  inward  bound. 
I  have  insisted  upon  Thoreau's  devotion  to  this  one  little 
plot  of  earth  not  merely  because  his  intensely  localized  sort 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

of  patriotism  is  now  so  rare  among  us,  not  merely  because 
we  must  all  somehow  manage  to  relearn  it  if  our  national 
patriotism  is  to  have  a  firm  enduring  basis,  but  because  it 
seems  to  have  been  the  source,  as  it  is  certainly  the  clearest 
explanation,  of  qualities  otherwise  difficult  to  understand  in 
his  character,  in  his  thought,  in  his  style.  Perhaps  its  full 
implications  have  not  been  drawn  out.  His  greatest  delight 
and  genius  lay,  as  I  have  said,  in  making  a  little  go  a  great 
way,  by  a  sort  of  inspired  parsimony.  In  his  lucid  intervals, 
which  were  frequent  enough,  he  must  have  seen  that  Concord 
was  not  in  fact  exceptionally  favored  by  the  gods.  "But 
what  a  faculty  must  that  be,"  says  he,  "which  can  paint 
the  most  barren  landscape  and  humblest  life  in  glorious 
colors.  It  is  pure  envigorated  senses  reacting  on  a  sound 
and  strong  imagination.  Is  not  that  the  poet's  case?" 
Precisely.  And  was  it  not  his  own?  The  less  there  was  of 
promise  in  his  raw  material,  the  greater  was  the  challenge 
to  the  artist's  passion  in  him,  to  that  passion  which  always 
strives  to  achieve  the  maximum  result  with  the  minimum 
of  means.  If  the  wireless  message  came  weak  and  blurred, 
there  was  no  help  for  it  but  to  have  a  better  receiving  instru- 
ment, and  he  set  himself  to  such  a  severe  ascetic  training 
that  he  could  at  last  catch  the  divine  words  out  of  the  clouds 
anywhere  and  at  any  time,  however  faint  and  dim.  All  of 
his  faculties  became  delicacies,  as  Stevenson  says,  so  that 
he  could  write :  "I  am  startled  that  God  can  make  me  so 
rich  even  with  my  own  poor  stores.  It  needs  but  a  wisp  of 
straw  in  the  sun,  or  some  small  word  dropped,  or  that  has 
lain  long  silent  in  some  book."  He  had  willingly  taken 
Poverty  to  wife,  and  part  of  what  she  taught  him  may  be 
learned  from  these  words,  perhaps  the  most  memorable  that 
he  ever  penned:  "If  the  day  and  night  are  such  that  you 
greet  them  with  joy,  and  life  emits  a  fragrance  like  flowers 
and  sweet-scented  herbs,  is  more  elastic,  more  starry,  more 
immortal  —  that  is  your  success." 

Probably  there  is  no  better  illustration  of  Thoreau's  inborn 
and  consciously  developed  faculty  of  making  much  of  little 
than  that  of  his  extreme  sensitiveness  to  sound.  The  delicacy 
of  his  senses  of  smell  and  taste  suggest  a  sort  of  Spartan 
Keats,  and  his  eyesight  was  probably  keener  than  the  average ; 
but  his  hearing  was  phenomenal.  Much  of  his  joy  in  life 
came  to  him  on  the  waves  of  sound,  but  out  of  what  almost 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

pathetically  simple  elements  that  pleasure  was  woven! 
The  whistle  of  a  locomotive  at  night,  the  barking  of  dogs 
and  crowing  of  cocks  in  the  distance,  his  brother's  flute  half 
a  mile  away,  an  accordeon  wheezing  in  a  neighboring  field, 
the  falling  of  a  tree  —  these  things  woke  him  to  ecstasy.  He 
walked  miles  to  hear  telegraph  wires  humming  in  the  wind, 
and  was  filled  with  gratitude  for  the  sweetness  of  his  life 
when  Sophia  Hawthorne  lent  him  a  music-box.  It  might 
almost  seem  that  he  asked  so  little  of  life  because  his  tight- 
strung  nerves  and  dew-clear  senses  would  not  endure  more 
than  he  had.  To  the  man  who  is  swept  into  the  seventh 
heaven  by  the  blast  of  a  horn  in  the  hands  of  a  tyro,  the  severest 
string  quartette  would  be  a  debauch,  and  he  might  not  sur- 
vive a  Wagnerian  opera. 

Closely  connected  with  this  faculty  of  making  much  of 
little  is  that  persistent  trick  of  Thoreau's  style  which 
amounted  almost  to  a  vice,  —  the  likening  of  great  things 
to  small  and  of  small  to  great.  It  is  not  fanciful,  therefore, 
to  attribute  even  his  habitual  exaggeration  to  the  influence 
of  his  Concord  life.  If  you  live  in  a  microcosm,  you  will  have 
to  exaggerate  enormously  in  order  to  make  others  see  what 
it  means  to  you.  If  you  go  forth  to  survey  the  universe 
with  a  two-foot  rod,  you  will  have  to  use  it  as  though  it  were 
a  slide-rule.  It  is  by  means  of  this  faculty  or  disease,  call 
it  which  one  will,  of  crowding  much  riches  into  little  room, 
that  Thoreau  became  not  a  town-clerk  or  fence-viewer  but 
a  poet  and  philosopher.  The  minute  changes  of  scene 
noticeable  in  dropping  down  the  Musketaquid  from  Concord 
to  Lowell  were  to  him  as  a  panorama  of  foreign  lands.  He 
speaks  of  the  men  of  Bedford  and  Billerica,  two  or  three  miles 
over  the  hills  from  where  he  sits  writing,  as  of  strange  and 
unaccountable  dwellers  in  Ultima  Thule.  Pits  dug  by 
charcoal  burners  in  the  woods  remind  him  of  the  ruins  of 
Etruria.  Thus  he  gets  his  romantic  distance,  both  of  time 
and  space,  on  remarkably  cheap  terms.  The  results  of  this; 
magnifying  habit  of  mind  sometimes  border  the  grotesque,, 
as  where  he  speaks  of  the  "upper  slopes  of  the  chestnut," 
compares  distant  lightning  to  the  veins  in  the  eye,  or  tells 
of  the  raindrop  which  struck  the  right  slope  of  his  nose  and 
ran  down  the  ravine  there,  and  then  remarks  "Such  is  the 
origin  of  rivers."  It  was  to  such  things  as  this  that  Lowell 
referred  when  he  said  that  Thoreau  had  "revived  the  age 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

of  the  concetti."    But  this  is  the  source,  too,  of  some  of  his 

\  best  things.    He  often  gives  the  reader  by  this  means  not 

I  only  the  shock  of  surprise  which  comes  from  the  sudden 

I  revelation   of   unsuspected  likenesses,   but  effects   of  rare 

beauty  as  well.    What  he  can  do  in  this  way  is  shown  by 

the  passage  in  which  he  says :   "Ever  and  anon  the  lightning 

,  filled  the  damp  air  with  light,  like  some  vast  glow-worm  in 

I  the  fields  of  ether,  opening  its  wings "  —  a  simile  which  it 

'  would  be  hard  to  better,  except  for  the  negligible  detail  that 

the  glow-worm  has  no  wings. 

These  qualities,  then,  of  Thoreau's  mind  and  writing  —  his 
economy  of  means,  his  tendency  to  see  great  things  in  small, 
his  exaggeration  —  may  be  referred  with  some  confidence 
to  his  life-long  residence  in  a  little  town  which  was  to  him 
a  tiny  simulacrum  of  the  great  world  —  a  microcosm.  Thus 
far,  however,  nothing  has  been  made  of  the  fact  that  this 
little  town  was  inhabited  by  human  beings.  And  it  is  still 
the  fairly  general  impression  that  Thoreau  himself  made  next 
to  nothing  of  that  fact.  The  opinion  will  not  down  that  he 
was  a  morose  and  misanthropic  solitary,  interested  in  birds, 
fishes,  plants,  even  Indians,  but  not  in  his  fellow  citizens. 
I  have  been  told  by  a  native  of  Concord  who  now  lives  next 
door  to  the  house  in  which  Thoreau  died,  that  "he  was  a 
smart  man,  no  doubt,  but  queer,  and  lived  nearly  all  his  life 
at  Walden  Pond."  The  fact  is,  as  stated  in  the  first  para- 
graph of  Walden,  that  he  lived  there  two  years  and  two 
months.  Mr.  John  Burroughs,  in  his  essay  on  "Thoreau's 
Wildness,"  says  that  he  appears  to  have  been  as  stoical  and 
indifferent  and  unsympathetic  as  a  veritable  Indian.  Stoical 
he  certainly  was,  and,  at  least  outwardly,  unsympathetic. 
How  curiously  unfeeling  he  could  seem  is  shown  in  a  letter  to 
Emerson,  then  in  England,  in  which  he  says  that  little 
Edward  Emerson  had  remarked  one  night  when  going  to 
bed,  "If  Waldo  were  here,  then  there  would  be  four  of  us 
going  up-stairs."  The  pang  which  those  innocently  intended 
words  must  have  caused  the  distant  father  will  be  appreciated 
hy  all  who  have  felt  the  nearly  intolerable  pathos  of  the 
""Threnody  "  for  this  same  Waldo,  and  by  those  who  know  that 
almost  the  last  words  spoken  on  Emerson's  death-bed  fifty 
years  later  were,  "O  that  beautiful  boy."  To  take  another 
instance,  in  that  journal  in  which  Thoreau  wrote  down  an 
account  of  every  walk  he  took  and  of  every  new  tree  or 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

flower  or  Insect  which  he  found  there  is  not  a  word  about  the 
death  of  his  brother  John,  whom  he  certainly  had  loved  more 
than  any  other  human  being.  The  event  is  marked  only  by 
the  fact  that,  whereas  the  entries  before  and  after  are  made 
at  intervals  of  two  or  three  days,  there  is  here  a  gap  of  five 
weeks.  But  it  is  elsewhere  on  record  that  Thoreau  himself 
nearly  died  of  grief  at  the  time  of  his  brother's  death  and 
that  the  event  was  never  mentioned  by  members  of  the 
family  in  his  presence.  Clearly,  there  is  no  evidence  here 
of  an  unfeeling  nature,  for  this  is  one  of  those  silences  which  are 
more  eloquent  than  many  words.  May  it  not  be  that  those 
who  have  thought  Thoreau  indifferent  and  unsympathetic 
have  failed  to  interpret  his  silences  correctly?  "The  flowing 
of  the  sap  under  the  dull  rind  of  trees,"  he  wrote,  "is  a  tide 
which  few  suspect."  He  seems  to  have  regarded  grief  as 
a  spiritual  disease,  for  he  did  not  find  it  in  nature,  and  he 
once  said  that  we  should  speak  and  act  only  out  of  our  health, 
or  out  of  that  grain  of  health  which  we  have  left. 

The  opinion  that  Thoreau  was  indifferent  in  matters  of 
human  relationship  will  not  stand  against  the  almost  unani- 
mous testimony  of  those  who  knew  him  best  —  and  it  is 
worthy  of  notice  that  he  had  throughout  his  life  an  unusual 
number  of  intimate  friends.  This  opinion  is  staggered  by 
his  essays  on  Friendship  and  on  Love,  in  comparison  with 
which  those  of  Emerson  on  the  same  topics  seem  cold  and 
formal.  Such  an  opinion  becomes  almost  grotesque  in  the 
light  of  certain  of  his  letters,  —  say  those  to  Mrs.  Lydian 
Emerson.  For  one  human  relationship,  however,  —  although 
here  too  we  should  remember  that  there  is  no  argument  from 
silence  —  he  seems  to  have  had  no  instinct.  "I  have  had 
a  tragic  correspondence,"  he  writes  to  Emerson,  "for  the 

most  part  all  on  one  side,  with  Miss .     She  did  really 

wish  to  —  I  hesitate  to  write  it  —  marry  me.  That  is  the 
way  they  spell  it.  Of  course  I  did  not  write  a  deliberate 
answer.  How  could  I  deliberate  upon  it?  I  sent  back  as 
distinct  a  no  as  I  have  learned  to  pronounce  after  considerable 
practice,  and  I  trust  that  this  no  has  succeeded.  Indeed, 
I  wished  that  it  might  burst,  like  hollow  shot,  after  it  had 
struck  and  buried  itself  and  made  itself  felt  there.  There 
was  no  other  way.  I  really  had  anticipated  no  such  foe  as 
this  in  my  career." 

The  source  of  Thoreau's  undeniable  and  chronic  irritation 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

against  mankind  was  not  misanthropy,  and  it  was  not  even 
his  hyper-sensitive  egoism,  so  much  as  the  fact  that  he  had 
hoped  more  from  human  nature  than  it  could  give,  habitually 
forgetting  our  frame  that  we  are  dust.  Ten  miles  down  the 
river,  with  not  a  house  in  sight,  he  could  think  most  lovingly 
of  his  fellows.  Sitting  alone  in  his  chamber,  he  could  write 
letters  glowing  with  affection.  But  in  the  parlor  at  Emerson's 
house  the  demon  of  negation  so  ruled  his  members  that  even 
the  clear-sighted  and  loving-hearted  master  of  that  house 
once  said,  with  well-nigh  paternal  forbearance,  "Henry  is 
with  difficulty  sweet."  The  ideal  motto  for  Thoreau  would 
have  been  Noli  me  tangere.  Both  for  better  and  worse,  he 
never  learned  to  say  "Yes." 

Toward  the  great  world  outside  of  Concord  and  the  whole 
question  of  his  social  duty,  also,  Thoreau  seemed  indifferent, 
but  was  not.  "I  must  confess,"  he  says,  "that  I  have  felt 
mean  enough  when  asked  how  I  was  to  act  upon  society, 
what  errand  I  had  to  mankind.  Undoubtedly  I  did  not  feel 
mean  without  a  reason,  and  yet  my  loitering  is  not  without 
defence.  I  would  fain  communicate  the  wealth  of  my  life 
to  men,  would  really  give  them  what  is  precious  in  my  gift." 
It  is  well  to  remember  in  this  connection  that  Thoreau  had 
been  one  of  that  breathless  audience  which  heard  Emerson's 
address  on  the  American  Scholar  at  Harvard  in  the  year  of 
Thoreau's  graduation,  —  had  been  one  of  those  young  men 
who  listened  "as  if  a  prophet  had  been  proclaiming  to  them 
'Thus  saith  the  Lord,' "  and  who  resolved  that  they  too  should 
be,  in  the  noble  phrase  of  the  speaker,  "delegated  minds." 
No  man  who  went  from  that  room,  not  even  the  speaker  him- 
self, adhered  more  closely  in  later  life  to  the  spirit  and  the 
letter  of  the  address  than  did  Thoreau.  He  really  proposed 
to  himself  no  less  a  task  than  to  be  "Man  Thinking."  While 
the  merchants  of  Concord  bought  and  sold,  while  the  farmers 
plowed  and  reaped,  he  sat  in  the  doorway  of  his  cabin,  think- 
ing. Diogenes  in  his  tub  personified  no  more  exasperating 
challenge  and  rebuke.  In  that  very  place  where,  as  it  is 
written,  a  prophet  is  without  honor,  there  Thoreau  de- 
liberately sat  down  and  stayed  —  "in  his  own  country,  and 
among  his  own  kin,  and  in  his  own  house."  The  moral 
courage,  the  hardening  of  purpose,  the  stiffening  of  character 
which  this  involved  must  be  evident  enough.  Not  ten  men 
in  America  could  have  fully  understood  what  he  was  about, 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

and  not  even  many  women.  Margaret  Fuller  damned  his 
manuscripts  with  faint  praise,  Elizabeth  Hoar  edged  the 
scalpel  of  her  wit  upon  him,  the  grocers  of  Concord  sent 
him  on  errands.  It  was  very  hard  to  make  clear  to  a  world 
which  had  felt  no  need  of  such  a  thing  that  he  was  a  "dele- 
gated mind."  Such  an  explanation  would  have  been 
calculated  to  make  the  neighbors  stare.  He  made  no  ex- 
planations whatever,  but  went  on  thinking  at  the  rate  of  a 
volume  of  journal  notes  per  year,  keeping  in  the  midst  of 
the  crowd,  although  not  with  perfect  sweetness,  the  inde- 
pendence of  solitude. 

Even  Emerson,  who  knew  less  about  discipline  than  most 
great  and  good  men,  made  it  clear  in  the  American  Scholar 
Address  that  an  arduous  training  is  required  of  the  delegated 
intellect.  Thoreau's  self-discipline  was  most  severe  and 
unremitting.  Dowered  by  nature  with  instincts  pure  and 
ethereal  almost  to  a  fault,  he  held  himself  always  at  the  top 
of  his  form.  Sometimes  he  feared  that  he  had  even  too  fine 
an  edge  at  last,  and  warned  himself  not  to  be  "too  moral." 
But  in  one  phase  of  his  preparation  he  saw  no  possibility  of 
excess :  he  never  felt  that  he  could  be  too  independent.  He 
found  the  price  of  most  things  too  high,  but  for  freedom  he 
would  pay  any  price  —  even  that  of  going  to  jail.  "Do 
what  you  love,"  he  writes  to  Harrison  Blake.  "Know  your 
own  bone ;  gnaw  at  it,  bury  it,  unearth  it,  and  gnaw  it  still." 
With  the  false  emphasis  common  to  all  the  progeny  of  Rous- 
seau, he  erects  the  individual  above  society,  constantly 
asking,  in  the  words  of  Max  Stirner:  "Why  will  you  not 
take  courage  now  to  make  yourself  the  central  point  and  the 
main  thing  altogether?"  He  liked  to  think  himself  the  sole 
spectator  for  whom  Nature's  pictures  were  painted,  and  he 
would  have  understood  the  sharp  twinge  of  jealousy  with 
which  Wordsworth  always  heard  any  other  person  make 
mention  of  mountains.  If  his  neighbors  had  once  obeyed 
his  denunciatory  exhortations  and  taken  to  living  in  the 
woods  and  fields,  that,  if  anything,  would  have  made  him 
leave  Concord. 

Two  things  must  be  done  for  Thoreau  before  he  can  take 
his  due  place  as  one  of  the  three  or  four  most  original  thinkers 
and  men  of  letters  America  has  produced.  The  first  of  these 
is  to  get  him  out  of  the  Emersonian  shadow.    Superficial 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

readers,  learning  that  both  the  Concord  writers  were  "tran- 
s-cendentalists"  but  that  Emerson  was  in  some  vague  way 
the  leader  of  the  school,  remembering  that  Thoreau  was 
Emerson's  junior  by  fourteen  years,  that  he  lived  for  a  time 
in  Emerson's  house  and  built  his  Walden  cabin  on  Emerson's 
land,  that  in  his  youth  he  resembled  Emerson  even  in  voice 
and  manner,  draw  the  natural  inference  that  Thoreau  shone 
only  with  a  lunar  light.  There  is  just  enough  truth  in  this 
inference  to  make  its  confutation  difficult.  We  may  bring 
evidence  against  it,  however,  from  three  different  sources: 
from  contemporaries  of  the  two  men  who  knew  them  both 
equally  well,  from  Emerson  himself,  and  from  the  writings 
of  each.  Moncure  Conway,  who  should  have  known,  says 
in  his  absorbing  Autobiography  that  the  resemblance  of 
Thoreau  to  Emerson  "was  the  more  interesting  because  so 
superficial  and  unconscious.  Thoreau  was  an  imitator  of 
no  mortal;  but  Emerson  had  long  been  a  part  of  the  very 
atmosphere  of  Concord,  and  it  was  as  if  this  element  had 
deposited  on  Thoreau  a  sort  of  mystical  moss."  Emerson 
writes,  a  year  after  Thoreau's  death:  "In  reading  Henry 
Thoreau's  journal,  I  am  very  sensible  of  the  vigor  of  his 
constitution.  ...  He  has  muscle,  and  ventures  on  and 
performs  tasks  which  I  am  forced  to  decline.  In  reading 
him,  I  find  the  same  thought,  the  same  spirit  which  is  in  me, 
but  he  takes  a  step  beyond  and  illustrates  by  excellent  images 
that  which  I  should  have  conveyed  in  a  sleepy  generalization." 
Turning  to  the  writings,  one  finds,  amid  much  similarity  in 
both  thought  and  expression  which  is  easily  explicable  as  j 
the  result  of  common  influences  playing  upon  both  men/ 
a  difference  in  philosophy  which  is  radical  and  wide-spreading, 
This  difference  may  be  illustrated  by  parallel  quotations 
dealing  with  the  fundamental  question  of  the  reliance  to  be 
placed  upon  spontaneous  instinct.  "Trust  the  instinct 
to  the  end,"  says  Emerson,  "though  you  can  render  no 
reason."  This  is  strongly  countered  by  Thoreau's  sentence : 
"Man's  life  consists  not  in  his  obedience,  but  in  his  opposition 
to  his  instincts."  Says  Emerson:  "Place  yourself  in  the 
middle  of  the  stream  of  power  and  wisdom  which  animates 
all  whom  it  floats,  and  you  are  without  effort  impelled  to 
truth,  to  right,  and  a  perfect  contentment."  Thoreau's 
words  on  the  same  general  topic  have  not  the  look  of  servile 
imitation:  "I  cannot  afford  to  relax  discipline  because  God 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

is  on  my  side,  for  He  is  on  the  side  of  discipline."  It  appears 
that  Thoreau  had  moral  muscle  as  well  as  mental  and  physical. 
He  could  not  float  with  any  stream.  As  soon  as  he  found  a 
current  he  began  to  swim  against  it.  He  was  chiefly  re-  I 
markable  among  the  Concord  philosophers  for  the  fact  that  ' 
he  lived  his  philosophy.  "To  be  a  philosopher,"  he  says, 
voicing  a  truth  which  has  been  largely  forgotten  since  the 
time  of  Socrates,  "  is  to  solve  some  of  the  problems  of  life  not 
only  theoretically  but  practically."  That  was  a  most 
significant  as  well  as  a  most  amusing  scene  which  was  enacted 
one  morning  at  Concord  Jail,  in  which  Thoreau  had  spent 
the  night  after  refusing  to  pay  his  poll-tax.  Deeply  shocked 
and  grieved,  Emerson  peered  through  the  bars  and  said: 
"Henry,  why  are  you  here?"  Instantly  came  back  the 
Yankee  reply:  "Waldo,  why  are  you  not  here?" 

It  is  a  little  hard  to  do  full  justice  to  Thoreau  without  some 
appearance  of  injustice  to  the  man  who  was  unquestionably, 
in  almost  all  respects,  his  superior.  If  it  seems  that  Thoreau 
was  a  somewhat  better  exemplar  of  Emersonianism  than 
Emerson  was  himself,  that  may  be  due  to  the  fact  that  he 
travelled  with  lighter  luggage.  The  simple  fact  is  that 
Emerson  rendered  Thoreau  the  highest  service  any  teacher 
can  give  by  setting  the  young  man  free  —  to  go  his  own  way. 
For  this,  and  for  the  life-long  stimulus  of  Emerson's  presence, 
Thoreau  gave  his  friend  that  loving  reverence  which  all  men 
gave  and  which  was  inevitable.  "One  needs  must  love  the 
highest  when  he  sees  it." 

The  second  thing  that  must  be  done  for  Thoreau  is  to  make  y 
it  clear  once  and  for  all  that  he  was  not  a  naturalist,  that  he  A 
did  not  regard  himself  as  such,  that  he  did  not  even  wish  to 
be  one.  It  can  be  shown  that  he  actually  feared  lest  the 
scientist  in  him  might  starve  out  the  poet,  lest  the  fences 
might  overcome  the  forest.  "I  fear,"  he  says,  "that  my 
knowledge  is  from  year  to  year  becoming  more  exact  and 
scientific;  that,  in  exchange  for  views  as  wide  as  heaven's 
cope,  I  am  being  narrowed  down  to  the  microscope."  There 
is  nothing  here  of  that  self-immolating  devotion  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  scientist  which  enabled  Charles  Darwin  to  sit 
quietly  by  and  watch  the  slow  atrophy  of  one  whole  side  of 
his  nature.  Neither  is  there  anything  resembling  the  method 
of  the  modern  scientist  in  Thoreau's  choice  of  field.  He  was 
interested  about  equally,  it  seems,  in  birds  and  fishes,  turtles 


XX11 


INTRODUCTION 


and  lichens,  flowers  and  rocks,  weather  and  ants,  mountains 
and  mice.  The  very  range  of  his  study,  most  of  which  was 
necessarily  superficial,  shows  that  his  heart  was  not  in  that 
patient  accumulation  of  fact  by  which  science  was  in  his 
time  plodding  toward  its  distant  unknown  goal.  He  would 
be  more  in  sympathy  with  the  biology  of  our  own  day,  which 
more  and  more  neglects  the  description  and  classification  of 
species  for  the  quest  of  ultimate  laws  and  principles.  The 
impulse  which  actuated  his  study  was  less  scientific  than 
religious.  It  was  his  constant  effort  to  press  on,  chiefly  by 
the  way  of  intuition,  to  the  final  Mystery  of  things,  to  the 
innermost  Holy  of  Holies.  In  going  about  the  woods  and 
fields  on  this  errand,  he  picked  up  large  stores  of  information 
and  misinformation  concerning  matters  to  which  scarcely 
any  one  in  America  had  paid  any  attention.  It  was  natural 
enough  that  his  woodcraft  and  his  powers  of  observation 
should  be  exaggerated  by  the  bookish  persons  about  him  who 
had  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  and  that  in  this  way  a 
legend  should  grow  about  his  name  which  could  not  sustain 
the  attacks  even  of  those  who  have  followed  precisely  the 
trails  which  he  blazed.  His  instruments  were  few  and  poor, 
he  had  few  guides  and  no  American  competitors,  and  he  had 
never  known  what  we  now  understand  by  scientific  training. 
The  result  has  been  no  little  innocent  amusement  to  profes- 
sional and  amateur  scientists  in  correcting  his  many  blunders 
and  wondering  that  he  did  not  know  this  and  that.  But  it 
is  a  straw  man  that  they  attack.  The  real  Thoreau  wrote 
in  his  journal:  "Man  cannot  afford  to  be  a  naturalist,  to 
look  at  Nature  directly,  but  only  with  the  side  of  his  eye. 
He  must  look  through  and  beyond  her."  Doubtless  he  would 
have  been  very  glad  to  have  solved  the  mystery  of  his  "night- 
warbler,"  but  once  he  had  done  so  he  would  have  moved  on 
at  once  into  some  other  parish  of  the  Infinite.  One  can 
imagine  him  smiling  benignly  at  the  ladies  and  gentlemen 
who  scramble  through  thicket  and  swamp,  opera-glass  in 
hand,  and  complacently  set  down  in  their  field-books  at  the 
end  of  a  weary  chase,  "Siurus  auricapillus,  unknown  to 
Thoreau."  One  can  almost  hear  him  murmur  those  help- 
ful words  of  his  friend's :  "When  me_  they  fly,  I  am  the 
wings." 

Buflf  Thoreau  was  not  a  naturalist,  then  what  was  he? 
He  was  a  practical  philosopher,  constantly  asking  and  trying 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

to  answer  the  most  important  question  of  all :  how  to  live. 
With  this  question  always  foremost  in  mind  he  studied 
nature,  books,  and  men.  It  is  undeniable  that  he  paid  a 
somewhat  disproportionate  amount  of  attention  to  the  first 
two  of  these  sources  of  knowledge,  but  at  least  it  may  be  said 
that  he  knew  the  truth  that  "the  proper  study  of  mankind 
is  man."  He  reminds  himself  that  it  is  " narrow  to  be 
confined  to  woods  and  fields"  and  that  "the  wisest  will  still 
be  related  to  men."  And  when  he  turned  upon  the  human 
animal  those  eyes  .which  had  been  trained  in  watching  wood- 
chucks  and  dormice,  he  could  see  a  man  to  the  quick  with 
his  searching  sidelong  gaze.  Witness  his  many  character 
sketches,  which  carry  one  about  as  far  toward  the  final  truth 
of  human  nature  as  cold  intellect  can  ever  go  in  that  direction, 
and  also  his  admirable  literary  criticism,  which  still  awaits 
an  adequate  appraisal.  He  can  give  you  the  town  drunkard 
or  Thomas  Carlyle  with  the  same  ease  and  certainty,  stripping 
off  all  the  husk  of  affectation  and  accidental  circumstance  until 
the  essential  man  stands  before  you  as  in  himself  he  really 
was.  Thoreau's  critical  method  was  learned  in  the  fields. 
The  change  from  plants  to  human  beings  does  not  in  the  least 
affect  his  imperturbable  sang-froid,  and  he  still  stands  with 
his  subject  impaled  as  it  were  on  a  pin,  his  magnifying  lens 
in  hand,  peeping  and  botanizing. 

—  Concerning  a  practical  philosopher  one  always  feels  im- 
pelled to  ask  whether  his  own  life  was  a  success  —  that  is, 
whether  he  achieved  happiness,  in  the  best  and  highest  sense 
of  the  word.  What  did  it  all  come  to  in  the  end,  this  experi- 
ment of  Thoreau's  in  vigorous  independence  and  intensive 
self-culture,  these  forty-five  years  of  devotion  to  lofty  ideals, 
of  high  thinking,  of  living  "as  delicately  as  one  plucks  a 
flower"?  He  gave  up  for  happiness  nearly  all  that  other 
men  cared  for  —  wealth,  fame,  ease,  and  pleasure.  The 
crucial  question  is:  was  he  happy?  Now,  although  he 
asserts  that  he  was  so  with  almost  damnable  iteration,  one 
cannot  finally  stifle  a  doubt.  It  would  be  easier  to  take  him 
at  his  word  if  his  tone  were  less  robustious  and  if  the  high 
color  which  he  always  wears  were  more  certainly  the  glow 
of  health.    It  seems,  then,  that  he  may  have 

"faltered  more  or  less 
In  his  great  task  of  happiness," 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

although  he  never  made  the  grievous  mistake  of  Carlyle  in 
asserting  that  happiness  was  none  of  his  business.  He  often 
felt  the  rare  joy  of  mere  passive  being,  he  had  his  ecstatic 
moments  and  his  hours  of  transfiguration,  but  one  fears  that 
he  seldom  knew  the  sober  and  durable  happiness  that  comes 
of  pulling  one's  full  weight  in  the  world's  united  effort. 
Moreover,  he  was  a  reformer  without  a  programme,  a  wor- 
shipper of  the  deed  who  never  began  to  act.  Here,  one  should 
say,  is  a  formula  for  misery.  But  when  we  conclude  that 
a  given  man,  under  all  his  circumstances,  cannot  be  anything 
but  miserable,  we  are  likely  to  overlook  the  prevalence  of 
hope.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Thoreau  came  near  to  a  steady 
radiance  of  joy  by  means  of  his  inveterate,  invincible  expec- 
tation of  better  things.  He  always  felt  it  possible  that  to- 
morrow's dawn  might  broaden  over  Paradise,  and  all  that 
be  ever  said  of  the  actual  grovelling  of  men  is  atoned  for  by 
his  hopes  of  what  men  might  become.  He  wrote  to  a  friend : 
"We  always  seem  to  be  living  just  on  the  verge  of  a  pure  and 
lofty  intercourse,  which  would  make  the  ills  and  trivialities 
of  life  ridiculous.  After  each  little  interval,  though  it  be 
but  for  a  night,  we  are  prepared  to  meet  each  other  as  gods 
and  goddesses."  He  loved  to  think  that  the  life  in  us,  like 
the  water  in  the  river,  might  rise  higher  this  year  than  ever 
before,  and  drown  out  all  the  musk-rats.  "Give  me  the  old 
familiar  walk,"  says  he,  "post-office  and  all  —  and  this  ever 
new  self,  this  infinite  expectation  and  faith  which  does  not 
know  when  it  is  beaten."  With  this  one  weapon  of  hope  he 
fended  off  unweariedly  "that  defeat  which  the  present  always 
seems,"  and  it  was  only  this  which  made  him  able  to  say  that 
he  loved  his  fate  "to  the  very  core  and  rind." 

Thoreau  was  ever  on  the  lookout  for  better  bread  than  is 
made  of  good  wheat  flour,  having  in  his  mind's  eye  some 
Platonic  loaf  which  had  soured,  for  him,  all  others.  His 
mature  life  was  lived  in  a  never  quite  disillusioned  memory 
of  his  boyhood's  dreams,  —  in  a  constant  effort  to  attain 
and  retain  their  pristine  purity  and  wonder,  to  realize  their 
promises.  "In  youth,"  says  he,  "before  I  lost  some  of  my 
senses,  I  can  remember  that  I  was  all  alive,  and  inhabited 
my  body  with  inexpressible  satisfaction.  This  earth  was 
the  most  glorious  musical  instrument,  and  I  was  audience 
to  its  strains.  For  years  I  marched  to  music  in  comparison 
with  which  the  military  music  in  the  streets  is  noise  and 


INTRODUCTION  xxv     < 

discord.  I  was  daily  intoxicated,  and  yet  no  man  could  call  ' 
me  intemperate.  With  all  your  science,  can  you  tell  us  how  > 
it  is  and  whence  it  is  that  light  comes  into  the  soul?" 

In  reading  these  words,  one  may  think  that  he  sees  some  ^. 
way  into  the  heart  of  Thoreau's  mystery.    Here,  perhaps,   ^ 
we  have  the  clew  to  the  famous  " Horse  and  Hound"  passage 
which  has  mystified  so  many.     There  is  nothing  unusual 
in  the  experience  except  the  clear  realization,  the  lasting     I 
memory,  and  the  expression  of  it  —  and  it  has  been  as  clearly    / 
remembered,  realized,  and  expressed  by  both  Wordsworth  v 
and  Henry  Vaughan.     Thoreau  was  ill  at  ease  with  others^ 
because  he  could  not  discover  that  they  had  such  memories 
as  his,  and  with  himself  because  he  could  not 

"wander  back 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  .  .  . 
From  which  th'  enlightened  spirit  sees 
That  shady  city  of  palm  trees." 

But  at  least  it  may  be  said  that  he  was  never  recreant  to  the 
vision. 

Thoreau  somewhere  says  that  there  are  "two  classes  of 
authors :  the  one  write  histories  of  their  times  and  the  other 
their  biography."  His  own  writings  belong  unmistakably 
to  the  second  class,  for  they  are  entirely  woven  out  of  his 
own  life.  Yet  he  was  probably  reminded  by  his  delicate 
critical  perception,  as  Stevenson  says,  that  the  true  business 
of  literature  is  with  narration,  and  so  "mingled  his  thoughts 
with  the  record  of  experience."  This  is  the  method  of  the 
only  two  books  which  he  prepared  for  the  press  and  published 
in  his  life-time,  Walden  and  the  Week.  Often  it  is  a  very 
slender  thread  of  events  upon  which  he  strings  his  medi- 
tations, and  one  frequently  is  made  to  wish  that  he  had  kept 
in  mind  the  wisdom  of  his  own  remark :  "All  fables,  indeed, 
have  their  morals,  but  the  innocent  enjoy  the  story."  In  its 
general  lack  of  intelligible  form,  the  Week  resembles  one  of 
those  efforts  at  carpentry  which  Alcott  was  so  fond  of  making 
and  Thoreau  of  ridiculing.  It  starts  out,  indeed,  with  a 
brave  show  of  system  and  clarity,  taking  its  chapter  headings 
from  the  days  of  the  week;  but  at  this  point  the  system 
breaks  down  and  is  no  more  seen.  The  unity  of  the  book  is 
like  that  of  the  Divina  Commedia,  consisting  entirely  in  the 


X 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

fact  that  the  author  goes  with  us  the  whole  way  in  propria 
persona.  The  book  winds  as  sinuous  and  irresponsible .  a 
course  as  the  Musketaquid  itself,  and  with  as  slow  a  current. 
-It  narrows  to  passages  of  confidential  chat  about  the  author's 
personal  prejudices  and  then  opens  suddenly  out  into  serene 
.reaches  of  Hindu  philosophy,  so  that  one  can  no  more  know 
on  turning  the  page  what  topic  will  next  be  proposed  than  he 
can  foretell  on  the  actual  stream  what  landscape  will  meet 
his  eye  when  his  canoe  has  rounded  the  next  bend.  In  short, 
i  it  is  a  multitudinous,  haphazard,  spontaneous,  rivery  sort 
I  of  book,  as  it  should  be.  Embedded  in  it  are  several  complete 
and  independent  essays,  forty-eight  original  poems  —  enough 
to  make  a  separate  volume  in  these  degenerate  days  —  and 
three  hundred  quotations  from  one  hundred  different  authors. 
Alcott  spoke  with  no  more  than  his  accustomed  exaggeration 
when  he  described  the  book  as  "Virgil  and  White  of  Selborne 
and  Izaak  Walton  and  Yankee  settler  all  in  one."  Here, 
then,  is  "  God's  plenty."  On  the  whole,  this  first  of  Thoreau's 
books  may  be  considered  his  best.  It  is  less  contentious  and 
is  written  with  more  youthful  gusto  than  Walden.  It  has 
more  continuity  than  Excursions,  which  contains  some  of 
the  best  of  his  detached  pieces,  or  any  of  the  books  which 
have  been  made  out  of  his  journals.  Thoreau  himself  said 
of  it:  "I  trust  it  does  not  smell  so  much  of  the  study  and 
library,  even  of  the  poet's  attic,  as  of  the  fields  and  woods." 
That  Thoreau  paid  for  the  publication  of  the  book  after 
hawking  it  about  in  Boston  and  New  York,  that  it  did  not 
sell,  that  a  large  part  of  the  edition  was  returned  to  him 
after  some  years,  so  that  he  could  write:  "I  have  now  a 
library  of  nearly  nine  hundred  volumes,  most  of  which  I 
wrote  myself"  —  these  are  matters  which  in  no  way  affect 
its  value.  Ten  years  elapsed  between  the  trip  and  the 
publication  of  its  record  in  1849,  during  which  time  it  was 
revised  and  expanded  more  than  once. 

No  one  can  hope  to  characterize  Thoreau's  style  more 
neatly  than  Moncure  Conway  did  in  calling  it  "a  sort  of 
celestial  homespun."  Most  of  its  merits  and  defects  are 
those  with  which  one  is  made  familiar  in  the  essays  of  Emer- 
son, who  summed  up  the  faults  of  his  own  writing  by  pointing 
out  his  "formidable  tendency  to  the  lapidary  style  .  .  .  para- 
graphs incompressible,  each  sentence  an  infinitely  repellent 
particle."    The  source  of  this  fault  in  both  writers  is  the 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

same  —  journal  writing.    But  both  derive  from  the  same 
source  an  amazing  quantity  and  variety  of  homely  metaphor 
dipped  fresh  each  day  from  the  waters  of  life  streaming 
before  their  very  doors,  and  it  is  chiefly  this  that  raises  their 
work  out  of  homiletics  into  poetry.     There  are  many  differ- 
ences between  the  two  styles,  of  course,  —  differences  due  to 
the  immensely  wider  sweep  of  Emerson's  mind,  to  its  superior 
poise  and  calm,  and  to  his  lack  of  that  spiritual  vigor  which, 
he  so  much  admired  in  his  friend.    Thoreau  could  not  have 
achieved  the  serene  elevation  of  the  opening  paragraphs  in' 
Emerson's  second  Nature  essay,  any  more  than  he   couldf 
have  flashed  the  torch  of  imagination  into  the  most  obscure 
and  secret  caves  of  thought,  as  Emerson  does  in  the  earlier 
one.    But  when  it  is  a  question  of  powers  and  knowledge ' 
which  may  be  acquired  through  devoted  study  and  obser- 
vation, through  mastery  of  fact,  he  is  as  clearly  superior  to 
Emerson  as  the  latter  is  to  him  in  those  equalities  which  are  i 
the  gifts  of  the  gods.     With  all  his  skill,  Emerson  could  not  i 
rival  his  pupil  in  the  power  to  bring  before  his  reader  thet 
actual  forms  of  mountain  and  bird  and  tree,  and,  as  Thoreau 
says,  "a  true  account  of  the  actual  is  the  rarest  poetry."' 
There  was  more  of  Plato  than  of  Pliny  in  the  elder  man. 
He  could  not  have  written  such  a  thing  as  Thoreau's  genial 
and  witty  paper  on  the  Landlord,  a  familiar  essay  of  the  best 
type,  of  which  Hazlitt  or  Stevenson  would  have  been  proud, 
—  crisp,  compact,  without  a  suggestion  of  sprawl.     It  isf 
abundantly  evident  that  what  Thoreau  needed  in  order  to| 
write  superlatively  well  was  a  definite  subject.     If  he  could/ 
have  learned  to  leave  alone  such  hazy  topics  as  Friendship( 
and  Love,  if  his  models  had  been  not  Hindu  visionaries  and 
Teutonizing  Englishmen  but  the  great  French  masters  of 
style,  if  he  could  have  made  his  sentences  flow  more  like  a 
river  and  less  like  a  moraine  of  boulders,  —  then  he  might 
have  been  not  only  the  great  jvriter  which  he  was  but  a  good  ) 
one  as  well. 

But  it  is  perilous  work  prescribing  for  genius.  Thoreau 
would  go  his  own  way  and  take  his  good  where  he  found  it. 
Such  as  he  was,  with  all  his  faults  and  foibles  upon  him,  this 
odd-chores-man  of  Concord,  who  carted  most  of  the  edition 
of  his  first  book  home  in  a  wheel-barrow,  looms  higher  year 
by  year  on  the  horizon  of  our  literature,  and  is  "still  greater 
than  the  world  suspects."    In  the  rude  boat  that  he  has  made 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

with  his  own  hands  he  drops  quietly  down  the  River  of 
Commonplace  which  flows  through  our  own  tame  little 
town,  he  doubles  strange  capes  and  cliffs  which  are  after 
all  only  over  the  hill  and  brings  back  shining  wares  from  the 
next  township  as  though  from  foreign  and  almost  fabulous 
lands.  He  keeps  us  in  mind  of  the  glory  of  the  near  and 
familiar.  He  shows  us  what  can  be  done  with  even  a  two- 
foot  measuring  rod  when  it  is  carved  on  a  walking-stick. 

Odell  Shepard. 


A  WEEK  ON  THE 

CONCORD  AND  MERRIMACK 

RIVERS 


CONCORD  RIVER 

"Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds  mindful  still  of  sannup  and  of  squaw, 
Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plough  unburies, 
Here,  in  pine  houses,  built  of  new-fallen  trees, 
Supplanters  of  the  tribe,  the  farmers  dwell." 

—  Emerson. 

The  Musketaquid,  or  Grass-ground  River,  though  probably 
as  old  as  the  Nile  or  Euphrates,  did  not  begin  to  have  a  place 
in  civilized  history,  until  the  fame  of  its  grassy  meadows 
and  its  fish  attracted  settlers  out  of  England  in  1635,  when  it 
received  the  other  but  kindred  name  of  Concord  from  the 
first  plantation  on  its  banks,  which  appears  to  have  been 
commenced  in  a  spirit  of  peace  and  harmony.-  It  will  be 
Grass-ground  River  as  long  as  grass  grows  and  water  runs 
here ;  it  will  be  Concord  River  only  while  men  lead  peaceable 
lives  on  its  banks.  To  an  extinct  race  it  was  grass-ground, 
where  they  hunted  and  fished,  and  it  is  still  perennial  grass- 
ground  to  Concord  farmers,  who  own  the  Great  Meadows, 
and  get  the  hay  from  year  to  year.  "One  branch  of  it,"  ac- 
cording to  the  Historian  of  Concord,  for  I  love  to  quote  so  good 
authority,  "rises  in  the  south  part  of  Hopkinton,  and  another 
from  a  pond  and  a  large  cedar  swamp  in  Westborough,"  and 
flowing  between  Hopkinton  and  Southborough,  through 
Framingham,  and  between  Sudbury  and  Wayland,  where  it 
is  sometimes  called  Sudbury  River,  it  enters  Concord  at  the 
south  part  of  the  town,  and  after  receiving  the  North  or 

1 


2  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Assabeth  River,  which  has  its  source  a  little  further  to  the 
north  and  west,  goes  out  at  the  northeast  angle,  and  flowing 
between  Bedford,  and  Carlisle,  and  through  Billerica,  empties 
into  the  Merrimack  at  Lowell.  In  Concord  it  is,  in  summer, 
from  four  to  fifteen  feet  deep,  and  from  one  hundred  to  three 
hundred  feet  wide,  but  in  the  spring  freshets,  when  it  over- 
flows its  banks,  it  is  in  some  places  nearly  a  mile  wide.  Be- 
tween Sudbury  and  Wayland  the  meadows  acquire  their 
greatest  breadth,  and  when  covered  with  water,  they  form 
a  handsome  chain  of  shallow  vernal  lakes,  resorted  to  by 
numerous  gulls  and  ducks.  Just  above  Sherman's  Bridge, 
between  these  towns,  is  the  largest  expanse,  and  when  the 
wind  blows  freshly  in  a  raw  March  day,  heaving  up  the 
surface  into  dark  and  sober  billows  or  regular  swells,  skirted 
as  it  is  in  the  distance  with  alder  swamps  and  smoke-like 
maples,  it  looks  like  a  smaller  Lake  Huron,  and  is  very  pleas- 
ant and  exciting  for  a  landsman  to  row  or  sail  over.  The 
farm-houses  along  the  Sudbury  shore,  which  rises  gently  to 
a  considerable  height,  command  fine  water  prospects  at  this 
season.  The  shore  is  more  flat  on  the  Wayland  side,  and  this 
town  is  the  greatest  loser  by  the  flood.  Its  farmers  tell  me 
that  thousands  of  acres  are  flooded  now,  since  the  dams  have 
been  erected,  where  they  remember  to  have  seen  the  white 
honeysuckle  or  clover  growing  once,  and  they  could  go  dry 
with  shoes  only  in  summer.  Now  there  is  nothing  but  blue- 
joint  and  sedge  and  cut-grass  there,  standing  in  water  all 
the  year  round.  For  a  long  time,  they  made  the  most  of 
the  driest  season  to  get  their  hay,  working  sometimes  till 
nine  o'clock  at  night,  sedulously  paring  with  their  scythes 
in  the  twilight  round  the  hummocks  left  by  the  ice;  but 
now  it  is  not  worth  the  getting,  when  they  can  come  at  it, 
and  they  look  sadly  round  to  their  wood-lots  and  upland  as 
a  last  resource. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  make  a  voyage  up  this  stream,  if 
you  go  no  farther  than  Sudbury,  only  to  see  how  much  country 
there  is  in  the  rear  of  us ;  great  hills,  and  a  hundred  brooks, 
and  farm-houses,  and  barns,  and  hay-stacks,  you  never  saw 
before,  and  men  everywhere ;  Sudbury,  that  is  Southborough 
men,  and  Wayland,  and  Nine-Acre-Corner  men,  and  Bound 
Rock,  where  four  towns  bound  on  a  rock  in  the  river,  Lincoln, 
Wayland,  Sudbury,  Concord.  Many  waves  are  there  agi- 
tated by  the  wind,  keeping  nature  fresh,  the  spray  blowing 


AND   MERRIMACK   RIVERS  3 

in  your  face,  reeds  and  rushes  waving ;  ducks  by  the  hundred, 
all  uneasy  in  the  surf,  in  the  raw  wind,  just  ready  to  rise,  and 
now  going  off  with  a  clatter  and  a  whistling,  like  riggers 
straight  for  Labrador,  flying  against  the  stiff  gale  with  reefed 
wings,  or  else  circling  round  first,  with  all  their  paddles 
briskly  moving,  just  over  the  surf,  to  reconnoitre  you  before 
they  leave  these  parts;  gulls  wheeling  overhead,  muskrats 
swimming  for  dear  life,  wet  and  cold,  with  no  fire  to  warm 
them  by  that  you  know  of ;  their  labored  homes  rising  here 
and  there  like  hay-stacks;  and  countless  mice  and  moles 
and  winged  titmice  along  the  sunny,  windy  shore  ;  cranberries 
tossed  on  the  waves  and  heaving  up  on  the  beach,  their  little 
red  skiffs  beating  about  among  the  alders ;  —  such  healthy 
natural  tumult  as  proves  the  last  day  is  not  yet  at  handr 
And  there  stand  all  around  the  alders,  and  birches,  and  oaks, 
and  maples  full  of  glee  and  sap,  holding  in  their  buds  until 
the  waters  subside.  You  shall  perhaps  run  aground  on  Cran- 
berry Island,  only  some  spires  of  last  year's  pipegrass  above 
water,  to  show  where  the  danger  is,  and  get  as  good  a  freezing 
there  as  anywhere  on  the  North-west  Coast.  I  never  voyaged 
so  far  in  all  my  life.  You  shall  see  men  you  never  heard  of 
before,  whose  names  you  don't  know,  going  away  down 
through  the  meadows  with  long  ducking  guns,  with  water- 
tight boots,  wading  through  the  fowl-meadow  grass,  on  bleak, 
wintry,  distant  shores,  with  guns  at  half  cock ;  and  they  shall 
see  teal,  blue-winged,  green-winged,  shelldrakes,  whistlers, 
black  ducks,  ospreys,  and  many  other  wild  and  noble  sights 
before  night,  such  as  they  who  sit  in  parlors  never  dream  of. 
You  shall  see  rude  and  sturdy,  experienced  and  wise  men, 
keeping  their  castles,  or  teaming  up  their  summer's  wood, 
or  chopping  alone  in  the  woods,  men  fuller  of  talk  and  rare 
adventure  in  the  sun  and  wind  and  rain,  than  a  chestnut  is 
of  meat;  who  were  out  not  only  in  '75  and  1812,  but  have 
been  out  every  day  of  their  lives ;  greater  men  than  Homer, 
or  Chaucer,  or  Shakspeare,  only  they  never  got  time  to  say 
so ;  they  never  took  to  the  way  of  writing.  Look  at  their 
fields,  and  imagine  what  they  might  write,  if  ever  they  should 
put  pen  to  paper.  Or  what  have  they  not  written  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  already,  clearing,  and  burning,  and  scratching, 
and  harrowing,  and  plowing,  and  subsoiling,  in  and  in,  and 
out  and  out,  and  over  and  over,  again  and  again,  erasing 
what  they  had  already  written  for  want  of  parchment. 


4  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

As  yesterday  and  the  historical  ages  are  past,  as  the  work  of 
to-day  is  present,  so  some  flitting  perspectives,  and  demi- 
experiences  of  the  life  that  is  in  nature  are  in  time  veritably 
future,  or  rather  outside  to  time,  perennial,  young,  divine, 
in  the  wind  and  rain  which  never  die. 

The  respectable  folks,  — 

Where  dwell  they? 

They  whisper  in  the  oaks, 

And  they  sigh  in  the  hay ; 

Summer  and  winter,  night  and  day, 

Out  on  the  meadow,  there  dwell  they. 

They  never  die, 

Nor  snivel,  nor  cry, 

Nor  ask  our  pity 

With  a  wet  eye. 

A  sound  estate  they  ever  mend, 

To  every  asker  readily  lend ; 

To  the  ocean  wealth, 

To  the  meadow  health, 

To  Time  his  length, 

To  the  rocks  strength, 

To  the  stars  light, 

To  the  weary  night, 

To  the  busy  day, 

To  the  idle  play ; 

And  so  their  good  cheer  never  ends, 

For  all  are  their  debtors,  and  all  their  friends. 

Concord  River  is  remarkable  for  the  gentleness  of  its  cur- 
rent, which  is  scarcely  perceptible,  and  some  have  referred 
to  its  influence  the  proverbial  moderation  of  the  inhabitants 
of  Concord,  as  exhibited  in  the  Revolution,  and  on  later 
occasions.  It  has  been  proposed  that  the  town  should  adopt 
for  its  coat  of  arms  a  field  verdant,  with  the  Concord  circling 
nine  times  round.  I  have  read  that  a  descent  of  an  eighth 
of  an  inch  in  a  mile  is  sufficient  to  produce  a  flow.  Our  river 
has,  probably,  very  near  the  smallest  allowance.  The  story 
is  current,  at  any  rate,  though  I  believe  that  strict  history 
will  not  bear  it  out,  that  the  only  bridge  ever  carried  away 
on  the  main  branch,  within  the  limits  of  the  town,  was  driven 
up  stream  by  the  wind.  But  wherever  it  makes  a  sudden 
bend  it  is  shallower  and  swifter,  and  asserts  its  title  to  be  called 
a  river.    Compared  with  the  other  tributaries  of  the  Merri- 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  5 

mack,  it  appears  to  have  been  properly  named  Musketaquid, 
or  Meadow  River,  by  the  Indians.  For  the  most  part,  it 
creeps  through  broad  meadows,  adorned  with  scattered  oaks, 
where  the  cranberry  is  found  in  abundance,  covering  the 
ground  like  a  mossbed.  A  row  of  sunken  dwarf  willows 
borders  the  stream  on  one  or  both  sides,  while  at  a  greater 
distance  the  meadow  is  skirted  with  maples,  alders,  and  other 
fluviatile  trees,  overrun  with  the  grape  vine,  which  bears 
fruit  in  its  season,  purple,  red,  white,  and  other  grapes. 
Still  further  from  the  stream,  on  the  edge  of  the  firm  land, 
are  seen  the  gray  and  white  dwellings  of  the  inhabitants. 
According  to  the  valuation  of  1831,  there  were  in  Concord 
two  thousand,  one  hundred  and  eleven  acres,  or  about  one- 
seventh  of  the  whole  territory,  in  meadow;  this  standing 
next  in  the  list  after  pasturage  and  unimproved  lands ;  and, 
judging  from  the  returns  of  previous  years,  the  meadow  is 
not  reclaimed  so  fast  as  the  woods  are  cleared. 

The  sluggish  artery  of  the  Concord  meadows  steals  thus 
unobserved  through  the  town,  without  a  murmur  or  a  pulse- 
beat,  its  general  course  from  south-west  to  north-east,  and  its 
length  about  fifty  miles;  a  huge  volume  of  matter,  cease- 
lessly rolling  through  the  plains  and  valleys  of  the  substantial 
earth,  with  the  moccasined  tread  of  an  Indian  warrior,  mak- 
ing haste  from  the  high  places  of  the  earth  to  its  ancient  reser- 
voir. The  murmurs  of  many  a  famous  river  on  the  other 
side  of  the  globe  reach  even  to  us  here,  as  to  more  distant 
dwellers  on  its  banks ;  many  a  poet's  stream  floating  the 
helms  and  shields  of  heroes  on  its  bosom.  The  Xanthus  or 
Scamander  is  not  a  mere  dry  channel  and  bed  of  a  mountain 
torrent,  but  fed  by  the  ever-flowing  springs  of  fame ;  — 

"And  thou  Simois,  that  as  an  arrowe,  clere 
Through  Troy  rennest,  aie  downward  to  the  sea;"  — 


and  I  trust  that  I  may  be  allowed  to  associate  our  muddy 
but  much  abused  Concord  River  with  the  most  famous  in 
history. 

"Sure  there  are  poets  which  did  never  dream 
Upon  Parnassus,  nor  did  taste  the  stream 
Of  Helicon  ;  we  therefore  may  suppose 
Those  made  not  poets,  but  the  poets  those." 


6  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

The  Mississippi,  the  Ganges,  and  the  Nile,  those  journey- 
ing atoms  from  the  Rocky  Mountains,  the  Himmaleh,  and 
Mountains  of  the  Moon,  have  a  kind  of  personal  importance 
in  the  annals  of  the  world.  The  heavens  are  not  yet  drained 
over  their  sources,  but  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  still  send 
their  annual  tribute  to  the  Pasha  without  fail,  as  they  did 
to  the  Pharaohs,  though  he  must  collect  the  rest  of  his  revenue 
at  the  point  of  the  sword.  Rivers  must  have  been  the  guides 
which  conducted  the  footsteps  of  the  first  travellers.  They 
are  the  constant  lure,  when  they  flow  by  our  doors,  to  dis- 
tant enterprise  and  adventure,  and,  by  a  natural  impulse, 
the  dwellers  on  their  banks  will  at  length  accompany  their 
currents  to  the  lowlands  of  the  globe,  or  explore  at  their 
invitation  the  interior  of  continents.  They  are  the  natural 
highways  of  all  nations,  not  only  levelling  the  ground,  and 
removing  obstacles  from  the  path  of  the  traveller,  quenching 
his  thirst,  and  bearing  him  on  their  bosoms,  but  conducting 
him  through  the  most  interesting  scenery,  the  most  popu- 
lous portions  of  the  globe,  and  where  the  animal  and  vege- 
table kingdoms  attain  their  greatest  perfection. 

I  had  often  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Concord,  watching 
the  lapse  of  the  current,  an  emblem  of  all  progress,  following 
the  same  law  with  the  system,  with  time,  and  all  that  is  made ; 
the  weeds  at  the  bottom  gently  bending  down  the  stream, 
shaken  by  the  watery  wind,  still  planted  where  their  seeds 
had  sunk,  but  ere  long  to  die  and  go  down  likewise;  the 
shining  pebbles,  not  yet  anxious  to  better  their  condition,  the 
chips  and  weeds,  and  occasional  logs  and  stems  of  trees,  that 
floated  past,  fulfilling  their  fate,  were  objects  of  singular 
interest  to  me,  and  at  last  I  resolved  to  launch  myself  on  its 
bosom,  and  float  whither  it  would  bear  me. 


SATURDAY 

"Come,  come,  my  lovely  fair,  and  let  us  try 
These  rural  delicates." 

—  Invitation  to  the  Soul.     Quarles. 

At  length,  on  Saturday,  the  last  day  of  August,  1839, 
we  two,  brothers,  and  natives  of  Concord,  weighed  anchor 
in  this  river  port;   for  Concord,  too,  lies  under  the  sun,  a 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  .    7 

port  of  entry  and  departure  for  the  bodies  as  well  as  the  souls 
of  men ;  one  shore  at  least  exempted  from  all  duties  but  such 
as  an  honest  man  will  gladly  discharge.  A  warm  drizzling 
rain  had  obscured  the  morning,  and  threatened  to  delay 
our  voyage,  but  at  length  the  leaves  and  grass  were  dried, 
and  it  came  out  a  mild  afternoon,  as  serene  and  fresh  as  if 
nature  were  maturing  some  greater  scheme  of  her  own.  After 
this  long  dripping  and  oozing  from  every  pore,  she  began  to 
respire  again  more  healthily  than  ever.  So  with  a  vigorous 
shove  we  launched  our  boat  from  the  bank,  while  the  flags 
and  bulrushes  curtseyed  a  God-speed,  and  dropped  silently 
down  the  stream. 

Our  boat,  which  had  cost  us  a  week's  labor  in  the  spring, 
was  in  form  like  a  fisherman's  dory,  fifteen  feet  long  by  three 
and  a  half  in  breadth  at  the  widest  part,  painted  green  below, 
with  a  border  of  blue,  with  reference  to  the  two  elements 
in  which  it  was  to  spend  its  existence.  It  had  been  loaded 
the  evening  before  at  our  door,  half  a  mile  from  the  river, 
with  potatoes  and  melons  from  a  patch  which  we  had  culti- 
vated, and  a  few  utensils,  and  was  provided  with  wheels 
in  order  to  be  rolled  around  falls,  as  well  as  with  two  sets  of 
oars,  and  several  slender  poles  for  shoving  in  shallow  places, 
and  also  two  masts,  one  of  which  served  for  a  tent-pole  at 
night;  for  a  buffalo  skin  was  to  be  our  bed,  and  a  tent  of 
cotton  cloth  our  roof.  It  was  strongly  built  but  heavy,  and 
hardly  of  better  model  than  usual.  If  rightly  made,  a  boat 
would  be  a  sort  of  amphibious  animal,  a  creature  of  two  ele- 
ments, related  by  one  half  its  structure  to  some  swift  and 
shapely  fish,  and  by  the  other  to  some  strong-winged  and 
graceful  bird.  The  fish  shows  where  there  should  be  the 
greatest  breadth  of  beam  and  depth  in  the  hold;  its  fins 
direct  where  to  set  the  oars,  and  the  tail  gives  some  hint  for 
the  form  and  position  of  the  rudder.  The  bird  shows  how 
to  rig  and  trim  the  sails,  and  what  form  to  give  to  the  prow 
that  it  may  balance  the  boat  and  divide  the  air  and  water 
best.  These  hints  we  had  but  partially  obeyed.  But  the 
eyes,  though  they  are  no  sailors,  will  never  be  satisfied  with 
any  model,  however  fashionable,  which  does  not  answer  all 
the  requisitions  of  art.  However,  as  art  is  all  of  a  ship  but 
the  wood,  and  yet  the  wood  alone  will  rudely  serve  the  pur- 
pose of  a  ship,  so  our  boat  being  of  wood  gladly  availed  itself 
of  the  old  law  that  the  heavier  shall  float  the  lighter,  and 


8  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

though  a  dull  water  fowl,  proved  a  sufficient  buoy  for  our 
purpose. 

"Were  it  the  will  of  Heaven,  an  osier  bough 
Were  vessel  safe  enough  the  seas  to  plow." 

Some  village  friends  stood  upon  a  promontory  lower  down 
the  stream  to  wave  us  a  last  farewell ;  but  we,  having  already 
performed  these  shore  rites  with  excusable  reserve,  as  befits 
those  who  are  embarked  on  unusual  enterprises,  who  behold 
but  speak  not,  silently  glided  past  the  firm  lands  of  Concord, 
both  peopled  cape  and  lonely  summer  meadow,  with  steady 
sweeps.  And  yet  we  did  unbend  so  far  as  to  let  our  guns 
speak  for  us,  when  at  length  we  had  swept  out  of  sight,  and 
thus  left  the  woods  to  ring  again  with  their  echoes;  and  it 
may  be  many  russet-clad  children  lurking  in  those  broad  mead- 
ows, with  the  bittern  and  the  woodcock  and  the  rail,  though 
wholly  concealed  by  brakes  and  hardhack  and  meadow-sweet, 
heard  our  salute  that  afternoon. 

We  were  soon  floating  past  the  first  regular  battle  ground 
of  the  Revolution,  resting  on  our  oars  between  the  still  visible 
abutments  of  that  "North  Bridge,"  over  which  in  April, 
1775,  rolled  the  first  faint  tide  of  that  war,  which  ceased  not, 
till,  as  we  read  on  the  stone  on  our  right,  it  "gave  peace  to 
these  United  States."    As  a  Concord  poet  has  sung,  — 

"By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

"  The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 
Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 
Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps." 

Our  reflections  had  already  acquired  a  historical  remote- 
ness from  the  scenes  we  had  left,  and  we  ourselves  essayed  to 
sing. 

Ah,  't  is  in  vain  the  peaceful  din 

That  wakes  the  ignoble  town, 
Not  thus  did  braver  spirits  win 

A  patriot's  renown. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  9 

There  is  one  field  beside  this  stream, 

Wherein  no  foot  does  fall, 
But  yet  it  beareth  in  my  dream 

A  richer  crop  than  all. 

Let  me  believe  a  dream  so  dear, 

Some  heart  beat  high  that  day, 
Above  the  petty  Province  here, 

And  Britain  far  away  ; 

Some  hero  of  the  ancient  mould, 

Some  arm  of  knightly  worth, 
Of  strength  unbought,  and  faith  unsold, 

Honored  this  spot  of  earth ; 

Who  sought  the  prize  his  heart  described, 

And  did  not  ask  release, 
Whose  free  born  valor  was  not  bribed 

By  prospect  of  a  peace. 

The  men  who  stood  on  yonder  height 

That  day  are  long  since  gone ; 
Not  the  same  hand  directs  the  fight 

And  monumental  stone. 

Ye  were  the  Grecian  cities  then, 

The  Romes  of  modern  birth. 
Where  the  New  England  husbandmen 

Have  shown  a  Roman  worth. 

In  vain  I  search  a  foreign  land, 

To  find  our  Bunker  Hill, 
And  Lexington  and  Concord  stand 

By  no  Laconian  rill. 

With  such  thoughts  we  swept  gently  by  this  now  peaceful 
pasture  ground,  on  waves  of  Concord,  in  which  was  long 
since  drowned  the  din  of  war. 

But  since  we  sailed 
Some  things  have  failed, 
And  many  a  dream 
Gone  down  the  stream. 

Here  then  an  aged  shepherd  dwelt, 
Who  to  his  flock  his  substance  dealt, 


10  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

And  ruled  them  with  a  vigorous  crook, 
By  precept  of  the  sacred  Book ; 
But  he  the  pierless  bridge  passed  o'er, 
And  solitary  left  the  shore. 

Anon  a  youthful  pastor  came, 
Whose  crook  was  not  unknown  to  fame, 
His  lambs  he  viewed  with  gentle  glance, 
Spread  o'er  the  country's  wide  expanse, 
And  fed  with  "  Mosses  from  the  Manse." 
Here  was  our  Hawthorne  in  the  dale, 
And  here  the  shepherd  told  his  tale. 

That  slight  shaft  had  now  sunk  behind  the  hills,  and  we 
had  floated  round  the  neighboring  bend,  and  under  the  new 
North  Bridge  between  Ponkawtasset  and  the  Poplar  Hill, 
into  the  Great  Meadows,  which,  like  a  broad  moccasin  print, 
have  levelled  a  fertile  and  juicy  place  in  nature. 

On  Ponkawtasset,  since,  with  such  delay, 
Down  this  still  stream  we  took  our  meadowy  way, 
A  poet  wise  has  settled,  whose  fine  ray 
Doth  faintly  shine  on  Concord's  twilight  day. 

Like  those  first  stars,  whose  silver  beams  on  high, 
Shining  more  brightly  as  the  day  goes  by, 
Most  travellers  cannot  at  first  descry, 
But  eyes  that  wont  to  range  the  evening  sky, 

And  know  celestial  lights,  do  plainly  see, 
And  gladly  hail  them,  numbering  two  or  three ; 
For  lore  that's  deep  must  deeply  studied  be, 
As  from  deep  wells  men  read  star-poetry. 

These  stars  are  never  pal'd,  though  out  of  sight, 
But  like  the  sun  they  shine  forever  bright ; 
Aye,  they  are  suns,  though  earth  must  in  its  flight 
Put  out  its  eyes  that  it  may  see  their  light. 

Who  would  neglect  the  least  celestial  sound, 
Or  faintest  light  that  falls  on  earthly  ground, 
If  he  could  know  it  one  day  would  be  found 
That  star  in  Cygnus  whither  we  are  bound, 
And  pale  our  sun  with  heavenly  radiance  round? 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  11 

Gradually  the  village  murmur  subsided,  and  we  seemed 
to  be  embarked  on  the  placid  current  of  our  dreams,  floating 
from  past  to  future  as  silently  as  one  awakes  to  fresh  morn- 
ing or  evening  thoughts.  We  glided  noiselessly  down  the 
stream,  occasionally  driving  a  pickerel  from  the  covert  of 
the  pads,  or  a  bream  from  her  nest,  and  the  smaller  bittern 
now  and  then  sailed  away  on  sluggish  wings  from  some  re- 
cess in  the  shore,  or  the  larger  lifted  itself  out  of  the  long 
grass  at  our  approach,  and  carried  its  precious  legs  away 
to  deposit  them  in  a  place  of  safety.  The  tortoises  also 
rapidly  dropped  into  the  water,  as  our  boat  ruffled  the  sur- 
face amid  the  willows,  breaking  the  reflections  of  the  trees. 
The  banks  had  passed  the  height  of  their  beauty,  and  some 
of  the  brighter  flowers  showed  by  their  faded  tints  that 
the  season  was  verging  towards  the  afternoon  of  the  year; 
but  this  sombre  tinge  enhanced  their  sincerity,  and  in  the 
still  unabated  heats  they  seemed  like  a  mossy  brink  of  some 
cool  well.  The  narrow-leaved  willow  lay  along  the  surface  of 
the  water  in  masses  of  light  green  foliage,  interspersed  with 
the  large  white  balls  of  the  button-bush.  The  rose-colored 
polygonum  raised  its  head  proudIy~above  the  water  on  either 
hand,  and,  flowering  at  this  season,  and  in  these  localities, 
in  the  midst  of  dense  fields  of  the  white  species  which  skirted 
the  sides  of  the  stream,  its  little  streak  of  red  looked  very 
rare  and  precious.  The  pure  white  blossoms  of  the  arrow- 
head stood  in  the  shallower  parts,  and  a  few  cardinals  on 
the  margin  still  proudly  surveyed  themselves  reflected  in 
the  water,  though  the  latter,  as  well  as  the  pickerel-weed, 
was  now  nearly  out  of  blossom.  The  snake-head,  chelone 
glabra,  grew  close  to  the  shore,  while  a  kind  of  coreopsis, 
turning  its  brazen  face  to  the  sun,  full  and  rank,  and  a  tall 
dull  red  flower,  eupatorium  purpureum,  or  trumpet  weed, 
formed  the  rear  rank  of  the  fluvial  array.  The  bright  blue 
flowers  of  the  soap-wort  gentian  were  sprinkled  here  and 
there  in  the  adjacent  meadows,  like  flowers  which  Proserpine 
had  dropped,  and  still  further  in  the  fields,  or  higher  on  the 
bank,  were  seen  the  Virginian  rhexia,  and  drooping  neottia 
or  ladies '-tresses ;  while  from  the  more  distant  waysides, 
which  we  occasionally  passed,  and  banks  where  the  sun  had 
lodged,  was  reflected  a  dull  yellow  beam  from  the  ranks  of 
tansy,  now  in  its  prime.  In  short,  nature  seemed  to  have 
adorned  herself  for  our  departure  with  a  profusion  of  fringes 


12  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

and  curls,  mingled  with  the  bright  tints  of  flowers,  reflected 
in  the  water.  But  we  missed  the  white  water-lily,  which  is 
the  queen  of  river  flowers,  its  reign  being  over  for  this  season. 
He  makes  his  voyage  too  late,  perhaps,  by  a  true  water  clock 
who  delays  so  long.  Many  of  this  species  inhabit  our  Con- 
cord water.  I  have  passed  down  the  river  before  sunrise 
on  a  summer  morning  between  fields  of  lilies  still  shut  in 
sleep ;  and  when  at  length  the  flakes  of  sunlight  from  over 
the  bank  fell  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  whole  fields  of  white 
blossoms  seemed  to  flash  open  before  me,  as  I  floated  along, 
like  the  unfolding  of  a  banner,  so  sensible  is  this  flower  to 
the  influence  of  the  sun's  rays. 

As  we  were  floating  through  the  last  of  these  familiar 
meadows,  we  observed  the  large  and  conspicuous  flowers 
of  the  hibiscus,  covering  the  dwarf  willows,  and  mingled  with 
the  leaves  of  the  grape,  and  wished  that  we  could  inform  one 
of  our  friends  behind  of  the  locality  of  this  somewhat  ra^e 
and  inaccessible  flower  before  it  was  too  late  to  pluck  it; 
but  we  were  just  gliding  out  of  sight  of  the  village  spire  be- 
fore it  occurred  to  us  that  the  farmer  in  the  adjacent  meadow 
would  go  to  church  on  the  morrow,  and  would  carry  this 
news  for  us;  and  so  by  the  Monday,  while  we  should  be 
floating  on  the  Merrimack,  our  friend  would  be  reaching  to 
pluck  this  blossom  on  the  bank  of  the  Concord. 

After  a  pause  at  Ball's  Hill,  the  St.  Ann's  of  Concord 
voyage.urs,  not  to  say  any  prayer  for  the  success  of  our 
voyage,  but  to  gather  the  few  berries  which  were  still  left  on 
the  hills,  hanging  by  very  slender  threads,  we  weighed  anchor 
again,  and  were  soon  out  of  sight  of  our  native  village.  The 
land  seemed  to  grow  fairer  as  we  withdrew  from  it.  Far 
away  to  the  south-west  lay  the  quiet  village,  left  alone  under 
its  elms  and  button-woods  in  mid  afternoon ;  and  the  hills, 
notwithstanding  their  blue,  ethereal  faces,  seemed  to  cast  a 
saddened  eye  on  their  old  playfellows;  but,  turning  short 
to  the  north,  we  bade  adieu  to  their  familiar  outlines,  and 
addressed  ourselves  to  new  scenes  and  adventures.  Nought 
was  familiar  but  the  heavens,  from  under  whose  roof  the 
voyageur  never  passes ;  but  with  their  countenance,  and  the 
acquaintance  we  had  with  river  and  wood,  we  trusted  to  fare 
well  under  any  circumstances. 

From  this  point,  the  river  runs  perfectly  straight  for  a 
mile  or  more  to  Carlisle  Bridge,  which  consists  of  twenty 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  13 

wooden  piers,  and  when  we  looked  back  over  it,  its  surface 
was  reduced  to  a  line's  breadth,  and  appeared  like  a  cobweb 
gleaming  in  the  sun.  Here  and  there  might  be  seen  a  pole 
sticking  up,  to  mark  the  place  where  some  fisherman  had 
enjoyed  unusual  luck,  and  in  return  had  consecrated  his 
rod  to  the  deities  who  preside  over  these  shallows.  It  was 
full  twice  as  broad  as  before,  deep  and  tranquil,  with  a  muddy 
bottom,  and  bordered  with  willows,  beyond  which  spread 
broad  lagoons  covered  with  pads,  bulrushes,  and  flags. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  passed  a  man  on  the  shore  fish- 
ing with  a  long  birch  pole,  its  silvery  bark  left  on,  and  a  dog 
at  his  side,  rowing  so  near  as  to  agitate  his  cork  with  our 
oars,  and  drive  away  luck  for  a  season ;  and  when  we  had 
rowed  a  mile  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  with  our  faces  turned 
towards  him,  and  the  bubbles  in  our  wake  still  visible  on  the 
tranquil  surface,  there  stood  the  fisher  still  with  his  dog, 
like  statues  under  the  other  side  of  the  heavens,  the  only 
objects  to  relieve  the  eye  in  the  extended  meadow ;  and  there 
would  he  stand  abiding  his  luck,  till  he  took  his  way  home 
through  the  fields  at  evening  with  his  fish.  Thus,  by  one 
bait  or  another,  Nature  allures  inhabitants  into  all  her  re- 
cesses. This  man  was  the  last  of  our  townsmen  whom  we 
saw,  and  we  silently  through  him  bade  adieu  to  our  friends. 

The  characteristics  and  pursuits  of  various  ages  and  races 
of  men  are  always  existing  in  epitome  in  every  neighborhood. 
The  pleasures  of  my  earliest  youth  have  become  the  inherit- 
ance of  other  men.  This  man  is  still  a  fisher,  and  belongs  to 
an  era  in  which  I  myself  have  lived.  Perchance  he  is  not 
confounded  by  many  knowledges,  and  has  not  sought  out 
many  inventions,  but  how  to  take  many  fishes  before  the 
sun  sets,  with  his  slender  birchen  pole  and  flaxen  line,  that 
is  invention  enough  for  him.  It  is  good  even  to  be  a  fisher- 
man in  summer  and  in  winter.  Some  men  are  judges  these 
August  days,  sitting  on  benches,  even  till  the  court  rises; 
they  sit  judging  there  honorably,  between  the  seasons  and 
between  meals,  leading  a  civil  politic  life,  arbitrating  in  the 
case  of  Spaulding  versus  Cummings,  it  may  be,  from  highest 
noon  till  the  red  vesper  sinks  into  the  west.  The  fisherman, 
meanwhile,  stands  in  three  feet  of  water,  under  the  same 
summer's  sun,  arbitrating  in  other  cases  between  muckworm 
and  shiner,  amid  the  fragrance  of  water-lilies,  mint,  and 


14  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

pontederia,  leading  his  life  many  rods  from  the  dry  land, 
within  a  pole's  length  of  where  the  larger  fishes  swim.  Hu- 
man life  is  to  him  very  much  like  a  river, 

—  "renning  aie  downward  to  the  sea." 

This  was  his  observation.  His  honor  made  a  great  discovery 
in  bailments. 

I  can  just  remember  an  old  brown-coated  man  who  was 
the  Walton  of  this  stream,  who  had  come  over  from  New- 
castle, England,  with  his  son,  the  latter  a  stout  and  hearty 
man  who  had  lifted  an  anchor  in  his  day.  A  straight  old 
man  he  was  who  took  his  way  in  silence  through  the  meadows, 
having  passed  the  period  of  communication  with  his  fellows ; 
his  old  experienced  coat  hanging  long  and  straight  and 
brown  as  the  yellow  pine  bark,  glittering  with  so  much 
smothered  sunlight,  if  you  stood  near  enough,  no  work  of 
art  but  naturalized  at  length.  I  often  discovered  him  un- 
expectedly amid  the  pads  and  the  gray  willows  when  he 
moved,  fishing  in  some  old  country  method,  —  for  youth 
and  age  then  went  a-fishing  together,  —  full  of  incom- 
municable thoughts,  perchance  about  his  own  Tyne  and 
Northumberland.  He  was  always  to  be  seen  in  serene 
afternoons  haunting  the  river,  and  almost  rustling  with  the 
sedge ;  so  many  sunny  hours  in  an  old  man's  life,  entrapping 
silly  fish,  almost  grown  to  be  the  sun's  familiar ;  what  need 
had  he  of  hat  or  raiment  any,  having  served  out  his  time,  and 
seen  through  such  thin  disguises?  I  have  seen  how  his 
coeval  fates  rewarded  him  with  the  yellow  perch,  and  yet  I 
thought  his  luck  was  not  in  proportion  to  his  years ;  and  I 
have  seen  when,  with  slow  steps  and  weighed  down  with 
aged  thoughts,  he  disappeared  with  his  fish  under  his  low- 
roofed  house  on  the  skirts  of  the  village.  I  think  nobody 
else  saw  him ;  nobody  else  remembers  him  now,  for  he  soon 
after  died,  and  migrated  to  new  Tyne  streams.  His  fish- 
ing was  not  a  sport,  nor  solely  a  means  of  subsistence,  but  a 
sort  of  solemn  sacrament  and  withdrawal  from  the  world, 
just  as  the  aged  read  their  bibles. 

Whether  we  live  by  the  sea-side,  or  by  the  lakes  and  rivers, 
or  on  the  prairie,  it  concerns  us  to  attend  to  the  nature  of 
fishes,  since  they  are  not  phenomena  confined  to  certain 
localities  only,  but  forms  and  phases  of  the  life  in  nature 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  15 

universally  dispersed.  The  countless  shoals  which  annually 
coast  the  shores  of  Europe  and  America  are  not  so  interesting 
to  the  student  of  nature  as  the  more  fertile  law  itself,  which 
deposits  their  spawn  on  the  tops  of  mountains,  and  on  the 
interior  plains;  the  fish  principle  in  nature,  from  which  it 
results  that  they  may  be  found  in  water  in  so  many  places, 
in  greater  or  less  numbers.  The  natural  historian  is  not  a 
fisherman,  who  prays  for  cloudy  days  and  good  luck  merely, 
but  as  fishing  has  been  styled  "a  contemplative  man's  recrea- 
tion," introducing  him  profitably  to  woods  and  water,  so 
the  fruit  of  the  naturalist's  observations  is  not  in  new  genera 
or  species,  but  in  new  contemplations  still,  and  science  is 
only  a  more  contemplative  man's  recreation.  The  seeds  of 
the  life  of  fishes  are  everywhere  disseminated,  whether  the 
winds  waft  them,  or  the  waters  float  them,  or  the  deep  earth 
holds  them ;  wherever  a  pond  is  dug,  straightway  it  is  stocked 
with  this  vivacious  race.  They  have  a  lease  of  nature,  and 
it  is  not  yet  out.  The  Chinese  are  bribed  to  carry  their  ova 
from  province  to  province  in  jars  or  in  hollow  reeds,  or  the 
water-birds  to  transport  them  to  the  mountain  tarns  and 
interior  lakes.  There  are  fishes  wherever  there  is  a  fluid 
medium,  and  even  in  clouds  and  in  melted  metals  we  detect 
their  semblance.  Think  how  in  winter  you  can  sink  a  line 
down  straight  in  a  pasture  through  snow  and  through  ice, 
and  pull  up  a  bright,  slippery,  dumb,  subterranean  silver  or 
golden  fish!  It  is  curious,  also,  to  reflect  how  they  make 
one  family,  from  the  largest  to  the  smallest.  The  least 
minnow,  that  lies  on  the  ice  as  bait  for  pickerel,  looks  like 
a  huge  seafish  cast  up  on  the  shore.  In  the  waters  of  this 
town  there  are  about  a  dozen  distinct  species,  though  the 
inexperienced  would  expect  many  more. 

It  enhances  our  sense  of  the  grand  security  and  serenity 
of  nature  to  observe  the  still  undisturbed  economy  and 
content  of  the  fishes  of  this  century,  their  happiness  a  regular 
fruit  of  the  summer.  The  fresh-water  Sun  Fish,  Bream,  or 
Ruff,  Pomotis  bulgaris,  as  it  were,  without  ancestry,  without 
posterity,  still  represents  the  Fresh  Water  Sun  Fish  in  nature. 
It  is  the  most  common  of  all,  and  seen  on  every  urchin's 
string ;  a  simple  and  inoffensive  fish,  whose  nests  are  visible 
all  along  the  shore,  hollowed  in  the  sand,  over  which  it  is 
steadily  poised  through  the  summer  hours  on  waving  fin. 


16  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Sometimes  there  are  twenty  or  thirty  nests  in  the  space  of  a 
few  rods,  two  feet  wide  by  half  a  foot  in  depth,  and  made 
with  no  little  labor,  the  weeds  being  removed,  and  the  sand 
shoved  up  on  the  sides,  like  a  bowl.  Here  it  may  be  seen 
early  in  summer  assiduously  brooding,  and  driving  away 
minnows  and  larger  fishes,  even  its  own  species,  which  would 
disturb  its  ova,  pursuing  them  a  few  feet,  and  circling  round 
swiftly  to  its  nest  again :  the  minnows,  like  young  sharks, 
instantly  entering  the  empty  nests  meanwhile,  and  swallow- 
ing the  spawn,  which  is  attached  to  the  weeds  and  to  the 
bottom,  on  the  sunny  side.  The  spawn  is  exposed  to  so 
many  dangers  that  a  very  small  proportion  can  ever  become 
fishes,  for  beside  being  the  constant  prey  of  birds  and  fishes, 
a  great  many  nests  are  made  so  near  the  shore,  in  shallow 
water,  that  they  are  left  dry  in  a  few  days,  as  the  river  goes 
down.  These  and  the  lamprey's  are  the  only  fishes'  nests 
that  I  have  observed,  though  the  ova  of  some  species  may 
be  seen  floating  on  the  surface.  The  breams  are  so  careful 
of  their  charge  that  you  may  stand  close  by  in  the  water  and 
examine  them  at  your  leisure.  I  have  thus  stood  over  them 
half  an  hour  at  a  time,  and  stroked  them  familiarly  without 
frightening  them,  suffering  them  to  nibble  my  fingers  harm- 
lessly, and  seen  them  erect  their  dorsal  fins  in  anger  when 
my  hand  approached  their  ova,  and  have  even  taken  them 
gently  out  of  the  water  with  my  hand ;  though  this  cannot 
be  accomplished  by  a  sudden  movement,  however  dexterous, 
for  instant  warning  is  conveyed  to  them  through  their  denser 
element,  but  only  by  letting  the  fingers  gradually  close  about 
them  as  they  are  poised  over  the  palm,  and  with  the  utmost 
gentleness  raising  them  slowly  to  the  surface.  Though 
stationary,  they  keep  up  a  constant  sculling  or  waving  motion 
with  their  fins,  which  is  exceedingly  graceful,  and  expressive 
of  their  humble  happiness ;  [for  unlike  ours,  the  element  in 
which  they  live  is  a  stream  which  must  be  constantly  resisted. 
From  time  to  time  they  nibble  the  weeds  at  the  bottom  or 
overhanging  their  nests,  or  dart  after  a  fly  or  a  worm.  The 
dorsal  fin,  besides  answering  the  purpose  of  a  keel,  with  the 
anal,  serves  to  keep  the  fish  upright,  for  in  shallow  water, 
where  this  is  not  covered,  they  fall  on  their  sides.  As  you 
stand  thus  stooping  over  the  bream  in  its  nest,  the  edges  of 
the  dorsal  and  caudal  fins  have  a  singular  dusty  golden  re- 
flection, and  its  eyes,  which  stand  out  from  the  head,  are 


AND   MERRIMACK   RIVERS  17 

transparent  and  colorless.  Seen  in  its  native  element,  it  is 
a  very  beautiful  and  compact  fish,  perfect  in  all  its  parts, 
and  looks  like  a  brilliant  coin  fresh  from  the  mint.  It  is  a 
perfect  jewel  of  the  river,  the  green,  red,  coppery,  and  golden 
reflections  of  its  mottled  sides  being  the  concentration  of 
such  rays  as  struggle  through  the  floating  pads  and  flowers 
to  the  sandy  bottom,  and  in  harmony  with  the  sunlit  brown 
and  yellow  pebbles.  Behind  its  watery  shield  it  dwells  far 
from  many  accidents  inevitable  to  human  life. 

There  is  also  another  species  of  bream  found  in  our  river, 
without  the  red  spot  on  the  operculum,  which,  according  to 
M.  Agassiz,  is  undescribed. 

The  Common  Perch,  Percaflavescens,  which  name  describes 
well  the  gleaming,  golden  reflections  of  its  scales  as  it  is  drawn 
out  of  the  water,  its  red  gills  standing  out  in  vain  in  the  thin 
element,  is  one  of  the  handsomest  and  most  regularly  formed 
of  our  fishes,  and  at  such  a  moment  as  this  reminds  us  of  the 
fish  in  the  picture,  which  wished  to  be  restored  to  its  native 
element  until  it  had  grown  larger ;  and  indeed  most  of  this 
species  that  are  caught  are  not  half  grown.  In  the  ponds 
there  is  a  light-colored  and  slender  kind,  which  swim  in 
shoals  of  many  hundreds  in  the  sunny  water,  in  company 
with  the  shiner,  averaging  not  more  than  six  or  seven  inches 
in  length,  while  only  a  few  larger  specimens  are  found  in 
the  deepest  water,  which  prey  upon  their  weaker  brethren. 
I  have  often  attracted  these  small  perch  to  the  shore  at 
evening,  by  rippling  the  water  with  my  fingers,  and  they  may 
sometimes  be  caught  while  attempting  to  pass  inside  your 
hands.  It  is  a  tough  and  heedless  fish,  biting  from  impulse, 
without  nibbling,  and  from  impulse  refraining  to  bite,  and 
sculling  indifferently  past.  It  rather  prefers  the  clear  water 
and  sandy  bottoms,  though  here  it  has  not  much  choice. 
It  is  a  true  fish,  such  as  the  angler  loves  to  put  into  his  basket 
or  hang  at  the  top  of  his  willow  twig,  in  shady  afternoons 
along  the  banks  of  the  stream.  So  many  unquestionable 
fishes  he  counts,  and  so  many  shiners,  which  he  counts  and 
then  throws  away. 

The  Chivin,  Dace,  Roach,  Cousin  Trout,  or  whatever  else 
it  is  called,  Leuciscus  pulchellus,  white  and  red,  always  an 
unexpected  prize,  which,  however,  any  angler  is  glad  to  hook 
for  its  rarity.  A  name  that  reminds  us  of  many  an  un- 
successful ramble  by  swift  streams,  when  the  wind  rose  to 


18  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

disappoint  the  fisher.  It  is  commonly  a  silvery  soft-scaled 
fish,  of  graceful,  scholarlike,  and  classical  look,  like  many  a 
picture  in  an  English  book.  It  loves  a  swift  current  and  a 
sandy  bottom,  and  bites  inadvertently,  yet  not  without 
appetite  for  the  bait.  The  minnows  are  used  as  bait  for 
pickerel  in  the  winter.  The  red  chivin,  according  to  some, 
is  still  the  same  fish,  only  older,  or  with  its  tints  deepened  as 
they  think  by  the  darker  water  it  inhabits,  as  the  red  clouds 
swim  in  the  twilight  atmosphere.  He  who  has  not  hooked 
the  red  chivin  is  not  yet  a  complete  angler.  Other  fishes, 
methinks,  are  slightly  amphibious,  but  this  is  a  denizen  of 
the  water  wholly.  The  cork  goes  dancing  down  the  swift- 
rushing  stream,  amid  the  weeds  and  sands,  when  suddenly, 
by  a  coincidence  never  to  be  remembered,  emerges  this 
fabulous  inhabitant  of  another  element,  a  thing  heard  of 
but  not  seen,  as  if  it  were  the  instant  creation  of  an  eddy, 
a  true  product  of  the  running  stream.  And  this  bright 
cupreous  dolphin  was  spawned  and  has  passed  its  life  be- 
neath the  level  of  your  feet  in  your  native  field.  Fishes, 
too,  as  well  as  birds  and  clouds,  derive  their  armor  from  the 
mine.  I  have  heard  of  mackerel  visiting  the  copper  banks 
at  a  particular  season ;  this  fish,  perchance,  has  its  habitat 
in  the  Coppermine  River.  I  have  caught  white  chivin  of 
great  size  in  the  Aboljacknagesic,  where  it  empties  into  the 
Penobscot,  at  the  base  of  Mount  Ktaadn,  but  no  red  ones 
there.  The  latter  variety  seems  not  to  have  been  sufficiently 
observed. 

The  Dace,  Leuciscus  argenteus,  is  a  slight  silvery  minnow, 
found  generally  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  where  the  cur- 
rent is  most  rapid,  and  frequently  confounded  with  the  last 
named. 

The  Shiner,  Leuciscus  crysoleucas,  is  a  soft-scaled  and 
tender  fish,  the  victim  of  its  stronger  neighbors,  found  in 
all  places,  deep  and  shallow,  clear  and  turbid;  generally 
the  first  nibbler  at  the  bait,  but,  with  its  small  mouth  and 
nibbling  propensities,  not  easily  caught.  It  is  a  gold  or 
silver  bit  that  passes  current  in  the  river,  its  limber  tail 
dimpling  the  surface  in  sport  or  flight.  I  have  seen  the  fry, 
when  frightened  by  something  thrown  into  the  water,  leap 
out  by  dozens,  together  with  the  dace,  and  wreck  themselves 
upon  a  floating  plank.  It  is  the  little  light-infant  of  the 
river,  with  body  armor  of  gold  or  silver  spangles,  slipping 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  19 

gliding  its  life  through  with  a  quirk  of  the  tail,  half  in  the 
water,  half  in  the  air,  upward  and  ever  upward  with  flitting 
fin  to  more  crystalline  tides,  yet  still  abreast  of  us  dwellers 
on  the  bank.  It  is  almost  dissolved  by  the  summer  heats. 
A  slighter  and  lighter  colored  shiner  is  found  in  one  of  our 
ponds. 

The  Pickerel,  Esox  reticulatus,  the  swiftest,  wariest,  and 
most  ravenous  of  fishes,  is  very  common  in  the  shallow  and 
weedy  lagoons  along  the  sides  of  the  stream.  It  is  a  solemn, 
stately,  ruminant  fish,  lurking  under  the  shadow  of  a  pad  at 
noon,  with  still,  circumspect,  voracious  eye,  motionless  as  a 
jewel  set  in  water,  or  moving  slowly  along  to  take  up  its 
position,  darting  from  time  to  time  at  such  unlucky  fish  or 
frog  or  insect  as  comes  within  its  range,  and  swallowing  it  at 
a  gulp.  I  have  caught  one  which  had  swallowed  a  brother 
pickerel  half  as  large  as  itself,  with  the  tail  still  visible  in  its 
mouth,  while  the  head  was  already  digested  in  its  stomach. 
Sometimes  a  striped  snake,  bound  to  greener  meadows  across 
the  stream,  ends  its  undulatory  progress  in  the  same  re- 
ceptacle. They  are  so  greedy  and  impetuous  that  they  are 
frequently  caught  by  being  entangled  in  the  line  the  moment 
it  is  cast.  Fishermen  also  distinguish  the  brook  pickerel, 
a  shorter  and  thicker  fish  than  the  former. 

The  Horned  Pout,  Pimelodus  nebulosus,^  sometimes  called 
Minister,  from  the  peculiar  squeaking  noise  it  makes  when 
drawn  out  of  the  water,  is  a  dull  and  blundering  fellow,  and 
like  the  eel  vespertinal  in  his  habits,  and  fond  of  the  mud. 
It  bites  deliberately  as  if  about  its  business.  They  are  taken 
at  night  with  a  mass  of  worms  strung  on  a  thread,  which 
catches  in  their  teeth,  sometimes  three  or  four,  with  an  eel, 
at  one  pull.  They  are  extremely  tenacious  of  life,  opening 
and  shutting  their  mouths  for  half  an  hour  after  their  heads 
have  been  cut  off.  A  bloodthirsty  and  bullying  race  of 
rangers,  inhabiting  the  fertile  river  bottoms,  with  ever  a 
lance  in  rest,  and  ready  to  do  battle  with  their  nearest  neigh- 
bor. I  have  observed  them  in  summer,  when  every  other 
one  had  a  long  and  bloody  scar  upon  his  back,  where  the 
skin  was  gone,  the  mark,  perhaps,  of  some  fierce  encounter. 
Sometimes  the  fry,  not  an  inch  long,  are  seen  darkening  the 
shore  with  their  myriads. 

The  Suckers,  Catostomi  Bostonienses  and  tuberculati,  Com- 
mon and  Horned,  perhaps  on  an  average  the  largest  of  our 


20  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

fishes,  may  be  seen  in  shoals  of  a  hundred  or  more,  stemming 
the  current  in  the  sun,  on  their  mysterious  migrations,  and 
sometimes  sucking  in  the  bait  which  the  fisherman  suffers 
to  float  toward  them.  The  former,  which  sometimes  grow 
to  a  large  size,  are  frequently  caught  by  the  hand  in  the 
brooks,  or,  like  the  red  chivins,  are  jerked  out  by  a  hook 
fastened  firmly  to  the  end  of  a  stick  and  placed  under  their 
jaws.  They  are  hardly  known  to  the  mere  angler,  however, 
not  often  biting  at  his  baits,  though  the  spearer  carries  home 
many  a  mess  in  the  spring.  To  our  village  eyes,  these  shoals 
have  a  foreign  and  imposing  aspect,  realizing  the  fertility  of 
the  seas. 

The  Common  Eel,  too,  Murcena  Bostoniensis,  the  only 
species  known  in  the  State,  a  slimy,  squirming  creature,  in- 
formed of  mud,  still  squirming  in  the  pan,  is  speared  and 
hooked  up  with  various  success.  Methinks  it  too  occurs  in 
picture,  left  after  the  deluge,  in  many  a  meadow  high  and 
dry. 

In  the  shallow  parts  of  the  river,  where  the  current  is  rapid, 
and  the  bottom  pebbly,  you  may  sometimes  see  the  curious 
circular  nests  of  the  Lamprey  Eel,  Petromyzon  Americanus, 
the  American  Stone-Sucker,  as  large  as  a  cart  wheel,  a  foot 
or  two  in  height,  and  sometimes  rising  half  a  foot  above  the 
surface  of  the  water.  They  collect  these  stones,  of  the  size 
of  a  hen's  egg,  with  their  mouths,  as  their  name  implies,  and 
are  said  to  fashion  them  into  circles  with  their  tails.  They 
ascend  falls  by  clinging  to  the  stones,  which  may  sometimes 
be  raised  by  lifting  the  fish  by  the  tail.  As  they  are  not 
seen  on  their  way  down  the  streams,  it  is  thought  by  fisher- 
men that  they  never  return,  but  waste  away  and  die,  clinging 
to  rocks  and  stumps  of  trees  for  an  indefinite  period ;  a  tragic 
feature  in  the  scenery  of  the  river  bottoms,  worthy  to  be 
remembered  with  Shakspeare's  description  of  the  sea-floor. 
They  are  rarely  seen  in  our  waters  at  present,  on  account 
of  the  dams,  though  they  are  taken  in  great  quantities  at 
the  mouth  of  the  river  in  Lowell.  Their  nests,  which  are 
very  conspicuous,  look  more  like  art  than  anything  in  the 
river. 

If  we  had  leisure  this  afternoon,  we  might  turn  our  prow 
up  the  brooks  in  quest  of  the  classical  trout  and  the  minnows. 
Of  the  last  alone,  according  to  M.  Agassiz,  several  of  the 
species  found  in  this  town  are  yet  undescribed.    These  would, 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  21 

perhaps,  complete  the  list  of  our  finny  contemporaries  in 
the  Concord  waters. 

Salmon,  Shad,  and  Alewives  were  formerly  abundant 
here,  and  taken  in  weirs  by  the  Indians,  who  taught  this 
method  to  the  whites,  by  whom  they  were  used  as  food  and 
as  manure,  until  the  dam,  and  afterward  the  canal  at  Billerica, 
and  the  factories  at  Lowell,  put  an  end  to  their  migrations 
hitherward ;  though  it  is  thought  that  a  few  more  enterpris- 
ing shad  may  still  occasionally  be  seen  in  this  part  of  the 
river.  It  is  said,  to  account  for  the  destruction  of  the  fishery, 
that  those  who  at  that  time  represented  the  interests  of  the 
fishermen  and  the  fishes,  remembering  between  what  dates 
they  were  accustomed  to  take  the  grown  shad,  stipulated 
that  the  dams  should  be  left  open  for  that  season  only,  and 
the  fry,  which  go  down  a  month  later,  were  consequently 
stopped  and  destroyed  by  myriads.  Others  say  that  the 
fish-ways  were  not  properly  constructed.  Perchance,  after 
a  few  thousands  of  years,  if  the  fishes  will  be  patient,  and 
pass  their  summers  elsewhere  meanwhile,  nature  will  have 
levelled  the  Billerica  dam,  and  the  Lowell  factories,  and  the 
Grass-ground  River  run  clear  again,  to  be  explored  by  new 
migratory  shoals,  even  as  far  as  the  Hopkinton  pond  and 
Westborough  swamp. 

One  would  like  to  know  more  of  that  race,  now  extinct, 
whose  seines  lie  rotting  in  the  garrets  of  their  children,  who 
openly  professed  the  trade  of  fishermen,  and  even  fed  their 
townsmen  creditably,  not  skulking  through  the  meadows 
to  a  rainy  afternoon  sport.  Dim  visions  we  still  get  of 
miraculous  draughts  of  fishes,  and  heaps  uncountable  by 
the  riverside,  from  the  tales  of  our  seniors  sent  on  horseback 
in  their  childhood  from  the  neighboring  towns,  perched  on 
saddle-bags,  with  instructions  to  get  the  one  bag  filled  with 
shad,  the  other  with  alewives.  At  least  one  memento  of 
those  days  may  still  exist  in  the  memory  of  this  generation, 
in  the  familiar  appellation  of  a  celebrated  train-band  of  this 
town,  whose  untrained  ancestors  stood  creditably  at  Con- 
cord North  Bridge.  Their  captain,  a  man  of  piscatory 
tastes,  having  duly  warned  his  company  to  turn  out  on  a 
certain  day,  they,  like  obedient  soldiers,  appeared  promptly 
on  parade  at  the  appointed  time,  but,  unfortunately,  they 
went  undrilled,  except  in  the  manoeuvres  of  a  soldier's  wit 
and  unlicensed  jesting,  that  May  day;   for  their  captain, 


22  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

forgetting  his  own  appointment,  and  warned  only  by  the 
favorable  aspect  of  the  heavens,  as  he  had  often  done  before, 
went  a  fishing  that  afternoon,  and  his  company  thenceforth 
was  known  to  old  and  young,  grave  and  gay,  as  "  The  Shad," 
and  by  the  youths  of  this  vicinity  this  was  long  regarded  as 
the  proper  name  of  all  the  irregular  militia  in  Christendom. 
But,  alas,  no  record  of  these  fishers'  lives  remains,  that  we 
know  of,  unless  it  be  one  brief  page  of  hard  but  unquestion- 
able history,  which  occurs  in  Day  Book  No.  4,  of  an  old  trader 
of  this  town,  long  since  dead,  which  shows  pretty  plainly 
what  constituted  a  fisherman's  stock  in  trade  in  those  days. 
It  purports  to  be  a  Fisherman's  Account  Current,  probably 
for  the  fishing  season  of  the  year  1805,  during  which  months 
he  purchased  daily  rum  and  sugar,  sugar  and  rum,  N.  E. 
and  W.  I.,  "one  cod  line,"  "one  brown  mug,"  and  "a  line 
for  the  seine;"  rum  and  sugar,  sugar  and  rum,  "good  loaf 
sugar,"  and  "good  brown,"  W.  I.  and  N.  E.,  in  short  and 
uniform  entries  to  the  bottom  of  the  page,  all  carried  out  in 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  from  March  25th  to  June  5th, 
and  promptly  settled  by  receiving  "cash  in  full"  at  the  last 
date.  But  perhaps  not  so  settled  altogether.  These  were 
the  necessaries  of  life  in  those  days ;  with  salmon,  shad,  and 
alewives,  fresh  and  pickled,  he  was  thereafter  independent 
on  the  groceries.  Rather  a  preponderance  of  the  fluid  ele- 
ments ;  but  such  was  this  fisherman's  nature.  I  can  faintly 
remember  to  have  seen  the  same  fisher  in  my  earliest  youth, 
still  as  near  the  river  as  he  could  get,  with  uncertain  undula- 
tory  step,  after  so  many  things  had  gone  down  stream,  swing- 
ing a  scythe  in  the  meadow,  his  bottle  like  a  serpent  hid  in 
the  grass ;  himself  as  yet  not  cut  down  by  the  Great  Mower. 
Surely  the  fates  are  forever  kind,  though  Nature's  laws 
are  more  immutable  than  any  despot's,  yet  to  man's  daily 
life  they  rarely  seem  rigid,  but  permit  him  to  relax  with  license 
in  summer  weather.  He  is  not  harshly  reminded  of  the 
things  he  may  not  do.  She  is  very  kind  and  liberal  to  all 
men  of  vicious  habits,  and  certainly  does  not  deny  them 
quarter ;  they  do  not  die  without  priest.  Still  they  main- 
tain life  along  the  way,  keeping  this  side  the  Styx,  still  hearty, 
still  resolute,  "never  better  in  their  lives;"  and  again,  after 
a  dozen  years  have  elapsed,  they  start  up  from  behind  a 
hedge,  asking  for  work  and  wages  for  able-bodied  men.  Who 
has  not  met  such 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  23 

"  a  beggar  on  the  way, 

Who  sturdily  could  gang?"  .  .  . 
"Who  cared  neither  for  wind  nor  wet, 
In  lands  where'er  he  past?" 

"That  bold  adopts  each  house  he  views,  his  own ; 
Makes  every  pulse  his  checquer,  and,  at  pleasure, 
Walks  forth,  and  taxes  all  the  world,  like  Caesar;"  — 

As  if  consistency  were  the  secret  of  health,  while  the  poor 
inconsistent  aspirant  man,  seeking  to  live  a  pure  life,  feeding 
on  air,  divided  against  himself,  cannot  stand,  but  pines  and 
dies  after  a  life  of  sickness,  on  beds  of  down. 

The  unwise  are  accustomed  to  speak  as  if  some  were  not 
sick;  but  methinks  the  difference  between  men  in  respect 
to  health  is  not  great  enough  to  lay  much  stress  upon.  Some 
are  reputed  sick  and  some  are  not.  It  often  happens  that 
the  sicker  man  is  the  nurse  to  the  sounder. 

Shad  are  still  taken  in  the  basin  of  Concord  River  at  Lowell, 
where  they  are  said  to  be  a  month  earlier  than  the  Merrimack 
shad,  on  account  of  the  warmth  of  the  water.  Still  patiently, 
almost  pathetically,  with  instinct  not  to  be  discouraged,  not 
to  be  reasoned  with,  revisiting  their  old  haunts,  as  if  their 
stern  fates  would  relent,  and  still  met  by  the  Corporation 
with  its  dam.  Poor  shad!  where  is  thy  redress?  When 
Nature  gave  thee  instinct,  gave  she  thee  the  heart  to  bear 
thy  fate?  Still  wandering  the  sea  in  thy  scaly  armor  to 
inquire  humbly  at  the  mouths  of  rivers  if  man  has  perchance 
left  them  free  for  thee  to  enter.  By  countless  shoals  loiter- 
ing uncertain  meanwhile,  merely  stemming  the  tide  there, 
in  danger  from  sea  foes  in  spite  of  thy  bright  armor,  await- 
ing new  instructions,  until  the  sands,  until  the  water  itself, 
tell  thee  if  it  be  so  or  not.  Thus  by  whole  migrating  nations, 
full  of  instinct,  which  is  thy  faith,  in  this  backward  spring, 
turned  adrift,  and  perchance  knowest  not  where  men  do  not 
dwell,  where  there  are  not  factories,  in  these  days.  Armed 
with  no  sword,  no  electric  shock,  but  mere  Shad,  armed  only 
with  innocence  and  a  just  cause,  with  tender  dumb  mouth 
only  forward,  and  scales  easy  to  be  detached.  I  for  one  am 
with  thee,  and  who  knows  what  may  avail  a  crow-bar  against 
that  Billerica  dam  ?  —  Not  despairing  when  whole  myriads 
have  gone  to  feed  those  sea  monsters  during  thy  suspense, 
but  still  brave,  indifferent,  on  easy  fin  there,  like  shad  reserved 


24  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

for  higher  destinies.  Willing  to  be  decimated  for  man's 
behoof  after  the  spawning  season.  Away  with  the  superficial 
and  selfish  phil-anthropy  of  men,  —  who  knows  what  admi- 
rable virtue  of  fishes  may  be  below  low-water  mark,  bearing 
up  against  a  hard  destiny,  not  admired  by  that  fellow  creature 
who  alone  can  appreciate  it!  Who  hears  the  fishes  when 
they  cry  ?  It  will  not  be  forgotten  by  some  memory  that  we 
were  contemporaries.  Thou  shalt  ere  long  have  thy  way 
up  the  rivers,  up  all  the  rivers  of  the  globe,  if  I  am  not  mis- 
taken. Yea,  even  thy  dull  watery  dream  shall  be  more  than 
realized.  If  it  were  not  so,  but  thou  wert  to  be  overlooked  at 
first  and  at  last,  then  would  not  I  take  their  heaven.  Yes, 
I  say  so,  who  think  I  know  better  than  thou  canst.  Keep 
a  stiff  fin  then,  and  stem  all  the  tides  thou  mayest  meet. 
"~At"  length  it  would  seem  that  the  interests,  not  of  the  fishes 
only,  but  of  the  men  of  Wayland,  of  Sudbury,  of  Concord, 
demand  the  levelling  of  that  dam.  Innumerable  acres  of 
meadow  are  waiting  to  be  made  dry  land,  wild  native  grass 
to  give  place  to  English.  The  farmers  stand  with  scythes 
whet,  waiting  the  subsiding  of  the  waters,  by  gravitation,  by 
evaporation  or  otherwise,  but  sometimes  their  eyes  do  not 
rest,  their  wheels  do  not  roll,  on  the  quaking  meadow  ground 
during  the  haying  season  at  all.  So  many  sources  of  wealth 
inaccessible.  They  rate  the  loss  hereby  incurred  in  the  single 
town  of  Wayland  alone  as  equal  to  the  expense  of  keeping 
a  hundred  yoke  of  oxen  the  year  round.  One  year,  as  I 
learn,  not  long  ago,  the  farmers  standing  ready  to  drive  their 
teams  afield  as  usual,  the  water  gave  no  signs  of  falling ;  with- 
out new  attraction  in  the  heavens,  without  freshet  or  visible 
cause,  still  standing  stagnant  at  an  unprecedented  height. 
All  hydrometers  were  at  fault ;  some  trembled  for  their  Eng- 
lish even.  But  speedy  emissaries  revealed  the  unnatural 
secret,  in  the  new  float-board,  wholly  a  foot  in  width,  added 
to  their  already  too  high  privileges  by  the  dam  proprietors. 
The  hundred  yoke  of  oxen,  meanwhile,  standing  patient, 
gazing  wishfully  meadowward,  at  that  inaccessible  waving 
native  grass,  uncut  but  by  the  great  mower  Time,  who  cuts 
so  broad  a  swathe,  without  so  much  as  a  wisp  to  wind  about 
their  horns. 

That  was  a  long  pull  from  Ball's  Hill  to  Carlisle  Bridge, 
sitting  with  our  faces  to  the  south,  a  slight  breeze  rising  from 
the  north ;  but  nevertheless  water  still  runs  and  grass  grows, 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  25 

for  now,  having  passed  the  bridge  between  Carlisle  and  Bed- 
ford, we  see  men  haying  far  off  in  the  meadow,  their  heads 
waving  like  the  grass  which  they  cut.  In  the  distance  the 
wind  seemed  to  bend  all  alike.  As  the  night  stole  over, 
such  a  freshness  was  wafted  across  the  meadow  that  every 
blade  of  cut-grass  seemed  to  teem  with  life.  Faint  purple 
clouds  began  to  be  reflected  in  the  water,  and  the  cow-bells 
tinkled  louder  along  the  banks,  while,  like  sly  water  rats, 
we  stole  along  nearer  the  shore,  looking  for  a  place  to  pitch 
our  camp. 

At  length,  when  we  had  made  about  seven  miles,  as  far  as 
Billerica,  we  moored  our  boat  on  the  west  side  of  a  little  rising 
ground  which  in  the  spring  forms  an  island  in  the  river.  Here 
we  found  huckleberries  still  hanging  upon  the  bushes,  where 
they  seemed  to  have  slowly  ripened  for  our  especial  use. 
Bread  and  sugar,  and  cocoa  boiled  in  river  water,  made  our 
repast,  and  as  we  had  drank  in  the  fluvial  prospect  all  day, 
so  now  we  took  a  draught  of  the  water  with  our  evening 
meal  to  propitiate  the  river  gods,  and  whet  our  vision  for 
the  sights  it  was  to  behold.  The  sun  was  setting  on  the  one 
hand,  while  our  eminence  was  contributing  its  shadow  to  the 
night,  on  the  other.  It  seemed  insensibly  to  grow  lighter 
as  the  night  shut  in,  and  a  distant  and  solitary  farm-house 
was  revealed,  which  before  lurked  in  the  shadows  of  the  noon. 
There  was  no  other  house  in  sight,  nor  any  cultivated  field. 
To  the  right  and  left,  as  far  as  the  horizon,  were  straggling 
pine  woods  with  their  plumes  against  the  sky,  and  across 
the  river  were  rugged  hills,  covered  with  shrub  oaks,  tangled 
with  grape  vines  and  ivy,  with  here  and  there  a  gray  rock 
jutting  out  from  the  maze.  The  sides  of  these  cliffs,  though 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  were  almost  heard  to  rustle  while 
we  looked  at  them,  it  was  such  a  leafy  wilderness ;  a  place 
for  fauns  and  satyrs,  and  where  bats  hung  all  day  to  the  rocks, 
and  at  evening  flitted  over  the  water,  and  fireflies  husbanded 
their  light  under  the  grass  and  leaves  against  the  night.  When 
we  had  pitched  our  tents  on  the  hill-side,  a  few  rods  from  the 
shore,  we  sat  looking  through  its  triangular  door  in  the  twi- 
light at  our  lonely  mast  on  the  shore,  just  seen  above  the 
alders,  and  hardly  yet  come  to  a  stand-still  from  the  swaying 
of  the  stream ;  the  first  encroachment  of  commerce  on  this 
land.  There  was  our  port,  our  Ostia.  That  straight  geo- 
metrical line  against  the  water  and  the  sky  stood  for  the  last 


26  A  WEEK  ON  THE   CONCORD 

refinements  of  civilized  life,  and  what  of  sublimity  there  is 
in  history  was  there  symbolized. 

For  the  most  part,  there  was  no  recognition  of  human  life 
in  the  night,  no  human  breathing  was  heard,  only  the  breath- 
ing of  the  wind.  As  we  sat  up,  kept  awake  by  the  novelty 
of  our  situation,  we  heard  at  intervals  foxes  stepping  about 
over  the  dead  leaves,  and  brushing  the  dewy  grass  close  to 
our  tent,  and  once  a  musquash  fumbling  among  the  potatoes 
and  melons  in  our  boat,  but  when  we  hastened  to  the  shore 
we  could  detect  only  a  ripple  in  the  water  ruffling  the  disk  of 
a  star,  if  At  intervals  we  were  serenaded  by  the  song  of  a  dream- 
ing sparrow  or  the  throttled  cry  of  an  owl,  but  after  each 
sound  which  near  at  hand  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
each  crackling  of  the  twigs,  or  rustling  among  the  leaves, 
there  was  a  sudden  pause,  and  deeper  and  more  conscious 
silence,  as  if  the  intruder  were  aware  that  no  life  was  right- 
fully abroad  at  that  hour.  \  There  was  a  fire  in  Lowell,  as 
we  judged,  this  night,  and  we  saw  the  horizon  blazing,  and 
heard  the  distant  alarm  bells,  as  it  were  a  faint  tinkling  music 
borne  to  these  woods.  But  the  most  constant  and  memor- 
able sound  of  a  summer's  night,  which  we  did  not  fail  to  hear 
every  night  afterward,  though  at  no  time  so  incessantly  and 
so  favorably  as  now,  was  the  barking  of  the  house  dogs, 
from  the  loudest  and  hoarsest  bark  to  the  faintest  aerial 
palpitation  under  the  eaves  of  heaven,  from  the  patient  but 
anxious  mastiff  to  the  timid  and  wakeful  terrier,  at  first  loud 
and  rapid,  then  faint  and  slow,  to  be  imitated  only  in  a  whis- 
per ;  wow-wow-wow-wow  —  wo  —  wo  —  w  —  w.  Even  in  a 
retired  and  uninhabited  district  like  this,  it  was  a  sufficiency 
of  sound  for  the  ear  of  night,  and  more  impressive  than  any 
music.  I  have  heard  the  voice  of  a  hound,  just  before  day- 
light, while  the  stars  were  shining,  from  over  the  woods  and 
river,  far  in  the  horizon,  when  it  sounded  as  sweet  and  melo- 
dious as  an  instrument.  The  hounding  of  a  dog  pursuing 
a  fox  or  other  animal  in  the  horizon,  may  have  first  suggested 
the  notes  of  the  hunting  horn  to  alternate  with  and  relieve 
the  lungs  of  the  dog.  This  natural  bugle  long  resounded  in 
the  woods  of  the  ancient  world  before  the  horn  was  invented. 
The  very  dogs  that  sullenly  bay  the  moon  from  farmyards 
in  these  nights,  excite  more  heroism  in  our  breasts  than  all 
the  civil  exhortations  or  war  sermons  of  the  age.  "I  had 
rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon,"  than  many  a  Roman 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  27 

that  I  know.  The  night  is  equally  indebted  to  the  clarion  of 
the  cock,  with  wakeful  hope,  from  the  very  setting  of  the 
sun,  prematurely  ushering  in  the  dawn.  All  these  sounds, 
the  crowing  of  cocks,  the  baying  of  dogs,  and  the  hum  of  in- 
sects at  noon,  are  the  evidence  of  nature's  health  or  sound 
state.  Such  is  the  never  failing  beauty  and  accuracy  of  lan- 
guage, the  most  perfect  art  in  the  world ;  the  chisel  of  a  thou- 
sand years  retouches  it. 

At  length  the  antepenultimate  and  drowsy  hours  drew  on, 
and  all  sounds  were  denied  entrance  to  our  ears. 


Who  sleeps  by  day  and  walks  by  night, 
Will  meet  no  spirit  but  some  sprite. 


ytuM^ 


SUNDAY 

"The  river  calmly  flows, 
Through  shining  banks,  through  lonely  glen, 
Where  the  owl  shrieks,  though  ne'er  the  cheer  of  men 

Has  stirred  its  mute  repose, 
Still  if  you  should  walk  there,  you  would  go  there  again." 

—  Channing. 

"The  Indians  tell  us  of  a  beautiful  River  lying  far  to  the  south, 
which  they  call  Merrimac." 

Sieur  de  Monts.     Relations  of  the  Jesuits,  1604. 

In  the  morning  the  river  and  adjacent  country  were  cov- 
ered with  a  dense  fog,  through  which  the  smoke  of  our  fire 
curled  up  like  a  still  subtiler  mist ;  but  before  we  had  rowed 
many  rods,  the  sun  arose  and  the  fog  rapidly  dispersed,  leav- 
ing a  slight  steam  only  to  curl  along  the  surface  of  the  water. 
It  was  a  quiet  Sunday  morning,  with  more  of  the  auroral 
rosy  and  white  than  of  the  yellow  light  in  it,  as  if  it  dated  from 
earlier  than  the  fall  of  man,  and  still  preserved  a  heathenish 
integrity ;  — 

i 
An  early  unconverted  Saint, 
Free  from  noontide  or  evening  taint, 
Heathen  without  reproach, 
That  did  upon  the  civil  day  encroach, 
And  ever  since  its  birth 
Had  trod  the  outskirts  of  the  earth. 


28  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

But  the  impressions  which  the  morning  makes  vanish  with 
its  dews,  and  not  even  the  most  "  persevering  mortal"  can 
preserve  the  memory  of  its  freshness  to  mid-day.  As  we 
passed  the  various  islands,  or  what  were  islands  in  the  spring, 
rowing  with  our  backs  down  stream,  we  gave  names  to  them. 
The  one  on  which  we  had  camped  we  called  Fox  Island,  and 
one  fine  densely  wooded  island  surrounded  by  deep  water 
and  overrun  by  grape  vines,  which  looked  like  a  mass  of 
verdure  and  of  flowers  cast  upon  the  waves,  we  named  Grape 
Island.  From  Ball's  Hill  to  Billerica  meeting-house,  the 
river  was  still  twice  as  broad  as  in  Concord,  a  deep,  dark, 
and  dead  stream,  flowing  between  gentle  hills  and  sometimes 
cliffs,  and  well  wooded  all  the  way.  It  was  a  long  woodland 
lake  bordered  with  willows.  For  long  reaches  we  could  see 
neither  house  nor  cultivated  field,  nor  any  sign  of  the  vicinity 
of  man.  Now  we  coasted  along  some  shallow  shore  by  the 
edge  of  a  dense  palisade  of  bulrushes,  which  straightly  bounded 
the  water  as  if  dipt  by  art,  reminding  us  of  the  reed  forts 
of  the  East  Indians,  of  which  we  had  read ;  and  now  the  bank 
slightly  raised  was  overhung  with  graceful  grasses  and  various 
species  of  brake,  whose  downy  stems  stood  closely  grouped 
and  naked  as  in  a  vase,  while  their  heads  spread  several 
feet  on  either  side.  The  dead  limbs  of  the  willow  were 
rounded  and  adorned  by  the  climbing  mikania,  mikania 
scandens,  which  filled  every  crevice  in  the  leafy  bank,  con- 
trasting agreeably  with  the  gray  bark  of  its  supporter  and 
the  balls  of  the  buttonbush.  The  water  willow,  salix  Purshi- 
ana,  when  it  is  of  large  size  and  entire,  is  the  most  graceful 
and  ethereal  of  our  trees.  Its  masses  of  fight  green  foliage, 
piled  one  upon  another  to  the  height  of  twenty  or  thirty  feet, 
seemed  to  float  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  while  the  slight 
gray  stems  and  the  shore  were  hardly  visible  between  them. 
No  tree  is  so  wedded  to  the  water,  and  harmonizes  so  well 
with  still  streams.  It  is  even  more  graceful  than  the  weeping 
willow,  or  any  pendulous  trees,  which  dip  their  branches 
in  the  stream  instead  of  being  buoyed  up  by  it.  Its  limbs 
curved  outward  over  the  surface  as  if  attracted  by  it.  It 
had  not  a  New  England  but  an  oriental  character,  reminding 
us  of  trim  Persian  gardens,  of  Haroun  Alraschid,  and  the  arti- 
ficial lakes  of  the  east. 

As  we  thus  dipped  our  way  along  between  fresh  masses 
of  foliage  overrun  with  the  grape  and  smaller  flowering  vines, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  29 

the  surface  was  so  calm,  and  both  air  and  water  so  trans- 
parent, that  the  flight  of  a  kingfisher  or  robin  over  the  river 
was  as  distinctly  seen  reflected  in  the  water  below  as  in  the 
air  above.  The  birds  seemed  to  flit  through  submerged 
groves,  alighting  on  the  yielding  sprays,  and  their  clear  notes 
to  come  up  from  below.  We  were  uncertain  whether  the 
water  floated  the  land,  or  the  land  held  the  water  in  its  bosom. 
It  was  such  a  season,  in  short,  as  that  in  which  one  of  our 
Concord  poets  sailed  on  its  stream,  and  sung  its  quiet  glories. 

"There  is  an  inward  voice,  that  in  the  stream 
Sends  forth  its  spirit  to  the  listening  ear, 
And  in  a  calm  content  it  floweth  on. 
Like  wisdom,  welcome  with  its  own  respect, 
Clear  in  its  breast  lie  all  these  beauteous  thoughts, 
It  doth  receive  the  green  and  graceful  trees, 
And  the  gray  rocks  smile  in  its  peaceful  arms,  — " 

And  more  he  sung,  but  too  serious  for  our  page.  For  every 
oak  and  birch,  too,  growing  on  the  hilltop,  as  well  as  for  these 
elms  and  willows,  we  knew  that  there  was  a  graceful,  ethereal 
and  ideal  tree  making  down  from  the  roots,  and  sometimes 
Nature  in  high  tides  brings  her  mirror  to  its  foot  and  makes 
it  visible.  The  stillness  was  intense  and  almost  conscious, 
as  if  it  were  a  natural  Sabbath.  (The  air  was  so  elastic  and 
crystalline  that  it  had  the  same  effect  on  the  landscape  that 
a  glass  has  on  a  picture,  to  give  it  an  ideal  remoteness  and 
perfection.  The  landscape  was  clothed  in  a  mild  and  quiet 
light,  in  which  the  woods  and  fences  checkered  and  parti- 
tioned it  with  new  regularity,  and  rough  and  uneven  fields 
stretched  away  with  lawn-like  smoothness  to  the  horizon, 
and  the  clouds,  finely  distinct  and  picturesque,  seemed  a 
fit  drapery  to  hang  over  fairy-land.>  The  world  seemed  decked 
for  some  holyday  or  prouder  pageantry,  with  silken  streamers 
flying,  and  the  course  of  our  lives  to  wind  on  before  us  like 
a  green  lane  into  a  country  maze,  at  the  season  when  fruit 
trees  are  in  blossom. 

Why  should  not  our  whole  life  and  its  scenery  be  actually 
thus  fair  and  distinct?  All  our  lives  want  a  suitable  back- 
ground. They  should  at  least,  like  the  life  of  the  anchorite, 
be  as  impressive  to  behold  as  objects  in  the  desert,  a  broken 
shaft  or  crumbling  mound  against  a  limitless  horizon.  Char- 
acter always  secures  for  itself  this  advantage,  and  is  thus 


30  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

distinct  and  unrelated  to  near  or  trivial  objects,  whether 
things  or  persons.  On  this  same  stream  a  maiden  once  sailed 
in  my  boat,  thus  unattended  but  by  invisible  guardians,  and 
as  she  sat  in  the  prow  there  was  nothing  but  herself  between 
the  steersman  and  the  sky.    I  could  then  say  with  the  poet :  — 

"Sweet  falls  the  summer  air 
Over  her  frame  who  sails  with  me ; 
Her  way  like  that  is  beautifully  free, 
Her  nature  far  more  rare, 
And  is  her  constant  heart  of  virgin  purity." 

At  evening,  still  the  very  stars  seem  but  this  maiden's  emis' 
saries  and  reporters  of  her  progress. 

Low  in  the  eastern  sky 
Is  set  thy  glancing  eye ; 
And  though  its  gracious  light 
Ne'er  riseth  to  my  sight, 
Yet  every  star  that  climbs 
Above  the  gnarled  limbs 

Of  yonder  hill, 
Conveys  thy  gentle  will. 

Believe  I  knew  thy  thought, 
And  that  the  zephyrs  brought 
Thy  kindest  wishes  through, 
As  mine  they  bear  to  you, 
That  some  attentive  cloud 
Did  pause  amid  the  crowd 

Over  my  head, 
While  gentle  things  were  said. 

Believe  the  thrushes  sung, 
And  that  the  flower  bells  rung, 
That  herbs  exhaled  their  scent, 
And  beasts  knew  what  was  meant, 
The  trees  a  welcome  waved, 
And  lakes  their  margins  laved, 

When  thy  free  mind 
To  my  retreat  did  wind. 

It  was  a  summer  eve, 
The  air  did  gently  heave, 
While  yet  a  low  hung  cloud 
Thy  eastern  skies  did  shroud ; 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  31 

The  lightning's  silent  gleam, 
Startling  my  drowsy  dream, 
Seemed  like  the  flash 
Under  thy  dark  eyelash. 

Still  will  I  strive  to  be 
As  if  thou  wert  with  me ; 
Whatever  path  I  take, 
It  shall  be  for  thy  sake. 
Of  gentle  slope  and  wide, 
As  thou  wert  by  my  side, 

Without  a  root 
To  trip  thy  gentle  foot. 

I'll  walk  with  gentle  pace, 
And  choose  the  smoothest  place, 
And  careful  dip  the  oar, 
And  shun  the  winding  shore, 
And  gently  steer  my  boat 
Where  water  lilies  float, 

And  cardinal  flowers 
Stand  in  their  sylvan  bowers. 

It  required  some  rudeness  to  disturb  with  our  boat  the 
mirror-like  surface  of  the  water,  in  which  every  twig  and 
blade  of  grass  was  so  faithfully  reflected;  too  faithfully 
indeed  for  art  to  imitate,  for  only  Nature  may  exaggerate 
herself.  The  shallowest  still  water  is  unfathomable.  Wher- 
ever the  trees  and  skies  are  reflected  there  is  more  than 
Atlantic  depth,  and  no  danger  of  fancy  running  aground. 
We  noticed  that  it  required  a  separate  intention  of  the  eye, 
a  more  free  and  abstracted  vision,  to  see  the  reflected  trees 
and  the  sky,  than  to  see  the  river  bottom  merely;  and  so 
are  there  manifold  visions  in  the  direction  of  every  object, 
and  even  the  most  opaque  reflect  the  heavens  from  their 
surface.  Some  men  have  their  eyes  naturally  intended  to 
the  one,  and  some  to  the  other  object. 

"A  man  that  looks  on  glass, 
On  it  may  stay  his  eye, 
Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  pass, 
And  the  heavens  espy." 

Two  men  in  a  skiff,  whom  we  passed  hereabouts,  floating 
buoyantly  amid  the  reflections  of  the  trees,  like  a  feather  in 


32  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

mid  air,  or  a  leaf  which  is  wafted  gently  from  its  twig  to  the 
water  without  turning  over,  seemed  still  in  their  element, 
and  to  have  very  delicately  availed  themselves  of  the  natural 
laws.  Their  floating  there  was  a  beautiful  and  successful 
experiment  in  natural  philosophy,  and  it  served  to  ennoble 
in  our  eyes  the  art  of  navigation,  for  as  birds  fly  and  fishes 
swim,  so  these  men  sailed.  It  reminded  us  how  much  fairer 
and  nobler  all  the  actions  of  man  might  be,  and  that  our  life 
in  its  whole  economy  might  be  as  beautiful  as  the  fairest 
works  of  art  or  nature. 

The  sun  lodged  on  the  old  gray  cliffs,  and  glanced  from 
every  pad ;  the  bulrushes  and  flags  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the 
delicious  light  and  air;  the  meadows  were  a-drinking  at 
their  leisure ;  the  frogs  sat  meditating,  all  Sabbath  thoughts, 
summing  up  their  week,  with  one  eye  out  on  the  golden  sun, 
and  one  toe  upon  a  reed,  eyeing  the  wondrous  universe  in 
which  they  act  their  part ;  the  fishes  swam  more  staid  and 
soberly,  as  maidens  go  to  church ;  shoals  of  golden  and  silver 
minnows  rose  to  the  surface  to  behold  the  heavens,  and  then 
sheered  off  into  more  sombre  aisles;  they  swept  by  as  if 
moved  by  one  mind,  continually  gliding  past  each  other, 
and  yet  preserving  the  form  of  their  battalion  unchanged, 
as  if  they  were  still  embraced  by  the  transparent  membrane 
which  held  the  spawn ;  a  young  band  of  brethren  and  sisters, 
trying  their  new  fins;  now  they  wheeled,  now  shot  ahead, 
and  when  we  drove  them  to  the  shore  and  cut  them  off,  they 
dexterously  tacked  and  passed  underneath  the  boat.  Over 
the  old  wooden  bridges  no  traveller  crossed,  and  neither 
the  river  nor  the  fishes  avoided  to  glide  between  the  abut- 
ments. 

Here  was  a  village  not  far  off  behind  the  woods,  Billerica, 
settled  not  long  ago,  and  the  children  still  bear  the  names  of 
the  first  settlers  in  this  late  "howling  wilderness;"  yet  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  it  is  as  old  as  Fernay  or  as  Mantua, 
an  old  gray  town,  where  men  grow  old  and  sleep  already 
under  moss-grown  monuments,  —  outgrow  their  usefulness. 
This  is  ancient  Billerica  (Villarica?),  now  in  its  dotage.  I 
never  heard  that  it  was  young.  See,  is  not  Nature  here  gone 
to  decay,  farms  all  run  out,  meeting-house  grown  gray  and 
racked  with  age?  If  you  would  know  of  its  early  youth,  ask 
those  old  gray  rocks  in  the  pasture.  It  has  a  bell  that  sounds 
sometimes  as  far  as  Concord  woods;    I  have  heard  that, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  33 

aye,  —  hear  it  now.  No  wonder  that  such  a  sound  startled 
the  dreaming  Indian,  and  frightened  his  game,  when  the  first 
bells  were  swung  on  trees,  and  sounded  through  the  forest 
beyond  the  plantations  of  the  White  man.  But  to-day  I 
like  best  the  echo  amid  these  cliffs  and  woods.  It  is  no 
feeble  imitation,  but  rather  its  original,  or  as  if  some  rural 
Orpheus  played  over  the  strain  again  to  show  how  it  should 
sound. 

Dong,  sounds  the  brass  in  the  east, 
As  if  to  a  funeral  feast, 
But  I  like  that  sound  the  best 
Out  of  the  fluttering  west. 

The  steeple  ringeth  a  knell, 
But  the  fairies'  silvery  bell 
Is  the  voice  of  that  gentle  folk, 
Or  else  the  horizon  that  spoke. 

Its  metal  is  not  of  brass, 
But  air,  and  water,  and  glass, 
And  under  a  cloud  it  is  swung, 
And  by  the  wind  it  is  rung. 

When  the  steeple  tolleth  the  noon, 

It  soundeth  not  so  soon, 

Yet  it  rings  a  far  earlier  hour, 

And  the  sun  has  not  reached  its  tower. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  road  runs  up  to  Carlisle,  city  of  the 
woods,  which,  if  it  is  less  civil,  is  the  more  natural.  It  does 
well  hold  the  earth  together.  It  gets  laughed  at  because  it 
is  a  small  town,  I  know,  but  nevertheless  it  is  a  place  where 
great  men  may  be  born  any  day,  for  fair  winds  and  foul  blow 
right  on  over  it  without  distinction.  It  has  a  meeting-house 
and  horse-sheds,  a  tavern  and  a  blacksmith's  shop  for  centre, 
and  a  good  deal  of  wood  to  cut  and  cord  yet.     And 

"Bedford,  most  noble  Bedford, 
I  shall  not  thee  forget." 

History  has  remembered  thee;  especially  that  meek  and 
humble  petition  of  thy  old  planters,  like  the  wailing  of  the 
Lord's  own  people,  "To  the  gentlemen,  the  selectmen"  of 
Concord,  praying  to  be  erected  into  a  separate  parish.    We 

•> 


34  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

can  hardly  credit  that  so  plaintive  a  psalm  resounded  but 
little  more  than  a  century  ago  along  these  Babylonish  waters. 
"In  the  extreme  difficult  seasons  of  heat  and  cold,"  said  they, 
"we  were  ready  to  say  of  the  Sabbath,  Behold  what  a  weari- 
ness is  it."  —  "Gentlemen,  if  our  seeking  to  draw  off  proceed 
from  any  disaffection  to  our  present  reverend  pastor,  or  the 
Christian  society  with  whom  we  have  taken  such  sweet  counsel 
together,  and  walked  unto  the  house  of  God  in  company, 
then  hear  us  not  this  day,  but  we  greatly  desire,  if  God  please, 
to  be  eased  of  our  burden  on  the  Sabbath,  the  travel  and 
fatigue  thereof,  that  the  word  of  God  may  be  nigh  to  us,  near 
to  our  houses,  and  in  our  hearts,  that  we  and  our  little  ones 
may  serve  the  Lord.  We  hope  that  God,  who  stirred  up  the 
spirit  of  Cyrus  to  set  forward  temple  work,  has  stirred  us  up 
to  ask,  and  will  stir  you  up  to  grant,  the  prayer  of  our  petition ; 
so  shall  your  humble  petitioners  ever  pray,  as  in  duty  bound, 
— ."  And  so  the  temple  work  went  forward  here  to  a  happy 
conclusion.  Yonder  in  Carlisle  the  building  of  the  temple 
was  many  wearisome  years  delayed,  not  that  there  was  want- 
ing of  Shittim  wood,  or  the  gold  of  Ophir,  but  a  site  therefor 
convenient  to  all  the  worshippers;  whether  on  "Buttrick's 
Plain,"  or  rather  on  "Poplar  Hill:"  it  was  a  tedious  ques- 
tion. 

In  this  Billerica  solid  men  must  have  lived,  select  from 
year  to  year,  a  series  of  town  clerks,  at  least,  and  there  are 
old  records  that  you  may  search.  Some  spring  the  white 
man  came,  built  him  a  house,  and  made  a  clearing  here,  letting 
in  the  sun,  dried  up  a  farm,  piled  up  the  old  gray  stones  in 
fences,  cut  down  the  pines  around  his  dwelling,  planted  or- 
chard seeds  brought  from  the  old  country,  and  persuaded 
the  civil  apple  tree  to  blossom  next  to  the  wild  pine  and  the 
juniper,  shedding  its  perfume  in  the  wilderness.  Their  old 
stocks  still  remain.  He  culled  the  graceful  elm  from  out  the 
woods  and  from  the  river-side,  and  so  refined  and  smoothed 
his  village  plot.  And  thus  he  plants  a  town.  He  rudely 
bridged  the  stream,  and  drove  his  team  afield  into  the  river 
meadows,  cut  the  wild  grass,  and  laid  bare  the  homes  of 
beaver,  otter,  muskrat,  and  with  the  whetting  of  his  scythe 
scared  off  the  deer  and  bear.  He  set  up  a  mill,  and  fields  of 
English  grain  sprang  in  the  virgin  soil.  And  with  his  grain 
he  scattered  the  seeds  of  the  dandelion  and  the  wild  trefoil 
over  the  meadows,  mingling  his  English  flowers  with  the  wild 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  35 

native  ones.  The  bristling  burdock,  the  sweet  scented  cat- 
nip, and  the  humble  yarrow,  planted  themselves  along  his 
woodland  road,  they  too  seeking  "freedom  to  worship  God" 
in  their  way.  The  white  man's  mullein  soon  reigned  in  Indian 
corn-fields,  and  sweet  scented  English  grasses  clothed  the 
new  soil.  Where,  then,  could  the  red  man  set  his  foot? 
The  honey  bee  hummed  through  the  Massachusetts  woods, 
and  sipped  the  wild  flowers  round  the  Indian's  wigwam, 
perchance  unnoticed,  when,  with  prophetic  warning,  it  stung 
the  red  child's  hand,  forerunner  of  that  industrious  tribe 
that  was  to  come  and  pluck  the  wild  flower  of  his  race  up  by 
the  root. 

The  white  man  comes,  pale  as  the  dawn,  with  a  load  of 
thought,  with  a  slumbering  intelligence  as  a  fire  raked  up, 
|  knowing  well  what  he  knows,  not  guessing  but  calculating ; 
strong  in  community,  yielding  obedience  to  authority;    of 
experienced  race ;    of  wonderful,  wonderful  common  sense ; 
dull  but  capable,  slow  but  persevering,  severe  but  just,  of 
j  little  humor  but  genuine ;  a  laboring  man,  despising  game  and 
I  sport ;   building  a  house  that  endures,  a  framed  house.     He 
i  buys  the  Indian's  moccasins  and  baskets,  then  buys  his  hunt- 
i  ing  grounds,  and  at  length  forgets  where  he  is  buried,  and 
!  plows  up  his  bones.     And  here  town  records,  old,  tattered, 
1  time-worn,  weather-stained  chronicles,   contain  the  Indian 
sachem's  mark,  perchance  an  arrow  or  a  beaver,  and  the  few 
fatal  words  by  which  he  deeded  his  hunting  grounds  away. 
He  comes  with  a  list  of  ancient  Saxon,  Norman,  and  Celtic 
names,  and  strews  them  up  and  down  this  river,  —  Framing- 
ham,  Sudbury,  Bedford,  Carlisle,  Billerica,  Chelmsford,  — 
and  this  is  New  Angle-land,  and  these  are  the  new  West 
Saxons,  whom  the  red  men  call,  not  Angle-ish  or  English,  but 
Yengeese,  and  so  at  last  they  are  known  for  Yankees. 

When  we  were  opposite  to  the  middle  of  Billerica,  the  fields 
on  either  hand  had  a  soft  and  cultivated  English  aspect,  the 
village  spire  being  seen  over  the  copses  which  skirt  the  river, 
and  sometimes  an  orchard  straggled  down  to  the  water  side, 
though,  generally,  our  course  this  forenoon  was  the  wildest 
part  of  our  voyage.  It  seemed  that  men  led  a  quiet  and  very 
civil  life  there.  The  inhabitants  were  plainly  cultivators 
of  the  earth,  and  lived  under  an  organized  political  govern- 
ment. The  school-house  stood  with  a  meek  aspect,  entreat- 
ing a  long  truce  to  war  and  savage  life.     Every  one  finds  by 


36  A  WEEK  ON   THE  CONCORD 

his  own  experience,  as  well  as  in  history,  that  the  era  in  which 
men  cultivate  the  apple,  and  the  amenities  of  the  garden,  is 
essentially  different  from  that  of  the  hunter  and  forest  life, 
and  neither  can  displace  the  other  without  loss.  We  have 
all  had  our  day  dreams,  as  well  as  more  prophetic  nocturnal 
visions,  but  as  for. farming,  I  am  convinced  that  my  genius 
dates  from  an  older  era  than  the  agricultural.  I  would  at 
least  strike  my  spade  into  the  earth  with  such  careless  free- 
dom but  accuracy  as  the  woodpecker  his  bill  into  a  tree. 
There  is  in  my  nature,  methinks,  a  singular  yearning  toward 
all  wildness.  I  know  of  no  redeeming  qualities  in  myself 
but  a  sincere  love  for  some  things,  and  when  I  am  reproved 
I  fall  back  on  to  this  ground.  What  have  I  to  do  with  plows? 
I  cut  another  furrow  than  you  see.  Where  the  off  ox  treads, 
there  is  it  not,  it  is  further  off ;  where  the  nigh  ox  walks,  it 
will  not  be,  it  is  nigher  still.  If  corn  fails,  my  crop  fails  not, 
and  what  are  drought  and  rain  to  me?  The  rude  Saxon 
pioneer  will  sometimes  pine  for  that  refinement  and  artificial 
beauty  which  are  English,  and  love  to  hear  the  sound  of  such 
sweet  and  classical  names  as  the  Pentland  and  Malvern  Hills, 
the  Cliffs  of  Dover  and  the  Trossacks,  Richmond,  Derwent, 
and  Winandermere,  which  are  to  him  now  instead  of  the 
Acropolis  and  Parthenon,  of  Baise,  and  Athens  with  its  sea 
walls,  and  Arcadia  and  Tempe. 

Greece,  who  am  I  that  should  remember  thee, 

Thy  Marathon  and  thy  Thermopylae  ? 

Is  my  life  vulgar,  my  fate  mean, 

Which  on  these  golden  memories  can  lean? 

We  are  apt  enough  to  be  pleased  with  such  books  as  Evelyn's 
Sylva,  Acetarium,  and  Kalendarium  Hortense,  but  they 
imply  a  relaxed  nerve  in  the  reader.  Gardening  is  civil  and 
social,  but  it  wants  the  vigor  and  freedom  of  the  forest  and 
the  outlaw.  There  may  be  an  excess  of  cultivation  as  well 
as  of  anything  else,  until  civilization  becomes  pathetic.  A 
highly  cultivated  man,  —  all  whose  bones  can  be  bent ! 
whose  heaven-born  virtues  are  but  good  manners!  The 
young  pines  springing  up  in  the  corn-fields  from  year  to  year 
are  to  me  a  refreshing  fact.  We  talk  of  civilizing  the  Indian,, 
but  that  is  not  the  name  for  his  improvement.  By  the  wary 
independence  and  aloofness  of  his  dim  forest  life  he  preserves 
his  intercourse  with  his  native  gods,  and  is  admitted  from 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  37 

time  to  time  to  a  rare  and  peculiar  society  with  Nature. 
He  has  glances  of  starry  recognition  to  which  our  saloons 
are  strangers.  The  steady  illumination  of  his  genius,  dim 
only  because  distant,  is  like  the  faint  but  satisfying  light  of 
the  stars  compared  with  the  dazzling  but  ineffectual  and 
short-lived  blaze  of  candles.  The  Society  Islanders  had 
their  day-born  gods,  but  they  were  not  supposed  to  be  "of 
equal  antiquity  with  the  atua  fauau  po,  or  night-born  gods." 
It  is  true,  there  are  the  innocent  pleasures  of  country  life,  and 
it  is  sometimes  pleasant  to  make  the  earth  yield  her  increase, 
and  gather  the  fruits  in  their  season,  but  the  heroic  spirit 
will  not  fail  to  dream  of  remoter  retirements  and  more  rugged 
paths.  It  will  have  its  garden  plots  and  its  parterres  else- 
where than  on  the  earth,  and  gather  nuts  and  berries  by  the 
way  for  its  subsistence,  or  orchard  fruits  with  such  heed- 
lessness as  berries.  We  would  not  always  be  soothing  and 
taming  Nature,  breaking  the  horse  and  the  ox,  but  sometimes 
ride  the  horse  wild  and  chase  the  buffalo.  The  Indian's 
intercourse  with  Nature  is  at  least  such  as  admits  of  the  great- 
est independence  of  each.  If  he  is  somewhat  of  a  stranger 
in  her  midst,  the  gardener  is  too  much  of  a  familiar.  There 
is  something  vulgar  and  foul  in  the  latter's  closeness  to  his 
mistress,  something  noble  and  cleanly  in  the  former's  dis- 
tance. In  civilization,  as  in  a  southern  latitude,  man  degen- 
erates at  length,  and  yields  to  the  incursion  of  more  northern 
tribes, 

"Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice." 

There  are  other,  savager,  and  more  primeval  aspects  of  Nature 
than  our  poets  have  sung.  It  is  only  white  man's  poetry. 
Homer  and  Ossian  even  can  never  revive  in  London  or  Boston. 
And  yet  behold  how  these  cities  are  refreshed  by  the  mere 
tradition,  or  the  imperfectly  transmitted  fragrance  and  flavor 
of  these  wild  fruits.  If  we  could  listen  but  for  an  instant  to 
the  chaunt  of  the  Indian  muse,  we  should  understand  why 
he  will  not  exchange  his  savageness  for  civilization.  Nations 
are  not  whimsical.  Steel  and  blankets  are  strong  tempta- 
tions ;  but  the  Indian  does  well  to  continue  Indian. 

After  sitting  in  my  chamber  many  days,  reading  the  poets, 
I  have  been  out  early  on  a  foggy  morning,  and  heard  the  cry 
of  an  owl  in  a  neighboring  wood  as  from  a  nature  behind  the 


38  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

common,  unexplored  by  science  or  by  literature.  None  of 
the  feathered  race  has  yet  realized  my  youthful  conceptions 
of  the  woodland  depths.  I  had  seen  the  red  Election-bird 
brought  from  their  recesses  on  my  comrades'  string,  and 
fancied  that  their  plumage  would  assume  stranger  and  more 
dazzling  colors,  like  the  tints  of  evening,  in  proportion  as  I 
advanced  further  into  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  the  forest. 
Still  less  have  I  seen  such  strong  and  wild  tints  on  any  poet's 
string. 

These  modern  ingenious  sciences  and  arts  do  not  affect 
me  as  those  more  venerable  arts  of  hunting  and  fishing,  and 
even  of  husbandry  in  its  primitive  and  simple  form ;  as  ancient 
and  honorable  trades  as  the  sun  and  moon  and  winds  pursue, 
coeval  with  the  faculties  of  man,  and  invented  when  these  were 
invented.  We  do  not  know  their  John  Gutenberg,  or  Richard 
Arkwright,  though  the  poets  would  fain  make  them  to  have 
been  gradually  learned  and  taught.    According  to  Gower, 

"And  Iadahel,  as  saith  the  boke, 
Firste  made  nette,  rfnd  fishes  toke. 
Of  huntyng  eke  he  fond  the  chaee, 
Whiche  nowe  is  knowe  in  many  place ; 
A  tent  of  clothe,  with  corde  and  stake, 
He  sette  up  first,  and  did  it  make." 

Also,  Lydgate  says : 

"Jason  first  sayled,  in  story  it  is  tolde, 
Toward  Colchos.  to  wynne  the  flees  of  golde. 
Ceres  the  Goddess  fond  first  the  tilthe  of  londe ; 

***** 

Also,  Aristeus  fonde  first  the  usage 

Of  my  Ike,  and  cruddis,  and  of  honey  swote ; 

Peryodes,  for  grete  avauntage, 

From  flyntes  smote  fuyre,  daryng  in  the  roote." 

We  read  that  Aristeus  "obtained  of  Jupiter  and  Neptune, 
that  the  pestilential  heat  of  the  dog  days,  wherein  was  great 
mortality,  should  be  mitigated  with  wind."  This  is  one  of 
those  dateless  benefits  conferred  on  man,  which  have  no 
record  in  our  vulgar  day,  though  we  still  find  some  similitude 
to  them  in  our  dreams,  in  which  we  have  a  more  liberal  and 
juster    apprehension    of    things,    unconstrained    by    habit, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  39 

which  is  then  in  some  measure  put  off,  and  divested  of  memory, 
which  we  call  history. 

According  to  fable,  when  the  island  of  iEgina  was  depopu- 
lated by  sickness,  at  the  instance  of  ^Eacus,  Jupiter  turned 
the  ants  into  men,  that  is,  as  some  think,  he  made  men  of 
the  inhabitants  who  lived  meanly  like  ants.  This  is  perhaps 
the  fullest  history  of  those  early  days  extant. 

The  fable  which  is  naturally  and  truly  composed,  so  as  to 
satisfy  the  imagination,  ere  it  addresses  the  understanding, 
beautiful  though  strange  as  a  wild  flower,  is  to  the  wise  man 
an  apothegm,  and  admits  of  his  most  generous  interpretation. 
When  we  read  that  Bacchus  made  the  Tyrrhenian  mariners 
mad,  so  that  they  leapt  into  the  sea,  mistaking  it  for  a  meadow 
full  of  flowers,  and  so  became  dolphins,  we  are  not  concerned 
about  the  historical  truth  of  this,  but  rather  a  higher  poetical 
truth.  We  seem  to  hear  the  music  of  a  thought,  and  care 
not  if  the  understanding  be  not  gratified.  For  their  beauty, 
consider  the  fables  of  Narcissus,  of  Endymion,  of  Memnon 
son  of  Morning,  the  representative  of  all  promising  youths 
who  have  died  a  premature  death,  and  whose  memory  is 
melodiously  prolonged  to  the  latest  morning;  the  beautiful 
stories  of  Phaeton,  and  of  the  Sirens  whose  isle  shone  afar 
off  white  with  the  bones  of  unburied  men ;  and  the  pregnant 
ones  of  Pan,  Prometheus,  and  the  Sphynx;  and  that  long 
list  of  names  which  have  already  become  part  of  the  universal 
language  of  civilized  men,  and  from  proper  are  becoming 
common  names  or  nouns,  —  the  Sibyls,  the  Eumenides,  the 
Parcae,  the  Graces,  the  Muses,  Nemesis,  &c. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  with  what  singular  unanimity 
the  furthest  sundered  nations  and  generations  consent  to 
give  completeness  and  roundness  to  an  ancient  fable,  of  which 
they  indistinctly  appreciate  the  beauty  or  the  truth.  By 
a  faint  and  dream-like  effort,  though  it  be  only  by  the  vote 
of  a  scientific  body,  the  dullest  posterity  slowly  add  some 
trait  to  the  mythus.  As  when  astronomers  call  the  lately 
discovered  planet  Neptune;  or  the  asteroid  Astrsea,  that 
the  Virgin  who  was  driven  from  earth  to  heaven  at  the  end 
of  the  golden  age,  may  have  her  local  habitation  in  the 
heavens  more  distinctly  assigned  her,  —  for  the  slightest 
recognition  sof  poetic  worth  is  significant.  By  such  slow 
aggregation  has  mythology  grown  from  the  first.    The  very 


40  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

nursery  tales  of  this  generation,  were  the  nursery  tales  of 
primeval  races.  They  migrate  from  east  to  west,  and  again 
from  west  to  east;  now  expanded  into  the  "tale  divine" 
of  bards,  now  shrunk  into  a  popular  rhyme.  This  is  an 
approach  to  that  universal  language  which  men  have  sought 
in  vain.  tThis  fond  reiteration  of  the  oldest  expressions  of 
truth  by  trie  latest  posterity,  content  with  slightly  and  reli- 
giously re-touching  the  old  material,  is  the  most  impressive 

•  proof  of  a  common  humanity. 

All  nations  love  the  same  jests  and  tales,  Jews,  Christians, 
and  Mahometans,  and  the  same  translated  suffice  for  all. 
__i — All  men  are  children,  and  of  one  family.  The  same  tale 
sends  them  all  to  bed,  and  wakes  them  in  the  morning. 
Joseph  Wolff,  the  missionary,  distributed  copies  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,  translated  into  Arabic,  among  the  Arabs,  and  they 

*  made  a  great  sensation.  "  Robinson  Crusoe's  adventures 
and  wisdom,"  says  he,  "were  read  by  Mahometans  in  the 
market-places  of  Sanaa,  Hodyeda,  and  Loheya,  and  admired 
and  believed !"  On  reading  the  book,  the  Arabians  ex- 
claimed, "Oh,  that  Robinson  Crusoe  must  have  been  a 
great  prophet!" 

To  some  extent,  mythology  is  only  the  most  ancient  history 
and  biography.  So  far  from  being  false  or  fabulous  in  the 
common  sense,  it  contains  only  enduring  and  essential  truth, 
the  I  and  you,  the  here  and  there,  the  now  and  then,  being 
omitted.  Either  time  or  rare  wisdom  writes  it.  Before 
printing  was  discovered,  a  century  was  equal  to  a  thousand 
years.  The  poet  is  he  who  can  write  some  pure  mythology 
to-day  without  the  aid  of  posterity.  In  how  few  words,  for 
instance,  the  Greeks  would  have  told  the  story  of  Abelard 
and  Heloise,  making  but  a  sentence  for  our  classical  dic- 
tionary, —  and  then,  perchance  have  stuck  up  their  names 
to  shine  in  some  corner  of  the  firmament.  We  moderns, 
on  the  other  hand,  collect  only  the  raw  materials  of  biography 
and  history,  "memoirs  to  serve  for  a  history,"  which  itself 
is  but  materials  to  serve  for  a  mythology.  How  many 
volumes  folio  would  the  Life  and  Labors  of  Prometheus  have 
filled,  if  perchance  it  had  fallen,  as  perchance  it  did  first, 
in  days  of  cheap  printing!  Who  knows  what  shape  the 
fable  of  Columbus  will  at  length  assume,  to  be  confounded 
with  that  of  Jason  and  the  expedition  of  the  Argonauts? 
And  Franklin,  —  there  may  be  a  line  for  him  in  the  future 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  41 

classical  dictionary,  recording  what  that  demigod  did,  and 

referring  him  to  some  new  genealogy.     "Son  of  and 

.     He  aided  the  Americans  to  gain  their  independence, 

instructed  mankind  in  economy,  and  drew  down  lightning 
from  the  clouds." 

The  hidden  significance  of  these  fables  which  is  sometimes 
thought  to  have  been  detected,  the  ethics  running  parallel 
to  the  poetry  and  history,  is  not  so  remarkable  as  the 
readiness  with  which  they  may  be  made  to  express  a  variety 
of  truths.  As  if  they  were  the  skeletons  of  still  older  and 
more  universal  truths  than  any  whose  flesh  and  blood  they 
are  for  the  time  made  to  wear.  It  is  like  striving  to  make 
the  sun,  or  the  wind,  or  the  sea,  symbols  to  signify  exclusively 
the  particular  thoughts  of  our  day.  But  what  signifies  it? 
In  the  mythus  a  superhuman  intelligence  uses  the  uncon- 
scious thoughts  and  dreams  of  men  as  its  hieroglyphics  to 
address  men  unborn.  In  the  history  of  the  human  mind, 
these  glowing  and  ruddy  fables  precede  the  noon-day  thoughts 
of  men,  as  Aurora  the  sun's  rays.  The  matutine  intellect 
of  the  poet,  keeping  in  advance  of  the  glare  of  philosophy, 
always  dwells  in  this  auroral  atmosphere. 

As  we  said  before,  the  Concord  is  a  dead  stream,  but  its 
scenery  is  the  more  suggestive  to  the  contemplative  voyager, 
and  this  day  its  water  was  fuller  of  reflections  than  our  pages 
even.  Just  before  it  reaches  the  falls  in  Billerica  it  is  con- 
tracted, and  becomes  swifter  and  shallower,  with  a  yellow 
pebbly  bottom,  hardly  passable  for  a  canal  boat,  leaving  the 
broader  and  more  stagnant  portion  above  like  a  lake  among 
the  hills.  All  through  the  Concord,  Bedford,  and  Billerica 
meadows,  we  had  heard  no  murmur  from  its  stream,  except 
where  some  tributary  runnel  tumbled  in,  — 

Some  tumultuous  little  rill, 

Purling  round  its  storied  pebble, 
Tinkling  to  the  self-same  tune, 
From  September  until  June, 

Which  no  drought  doth  e'er  enfeeble. 

Silent  flows  the  parent  stream, 

And  if  rocks  do  lie  below, 
Smothers  with  her  waves  the  din, 
As  it  were  a  youthful  sin, 

Just  as  still,  and  just  as  slow. 


42  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

But  now  at  length  we  heard  this  staid  and  primitive  river 
rushing  to  her  fall,  like  any  rill.  We  here  left  its  channel, 
just  above  the  Billerica  Falls,  and  entered  the  canal,  which 
runs,  or  rather  is  conducted,  six  miles  through  the  woods  to 
the  Merrimack  at  Middlesex,  and  as  we  did  not  care  to  loiter 
in  this  part  of  our  voyage,  while  one  ran  along  the  tow-path 
drawing  the  boat  by  a  cord,  the  other  kept  it  off  the  shore 
with  a  pole,  so  that  we  accomplished  the  whole  distance  in 
little  more  than  an  hour.  This  canal,  which  is  the  oldest  in 
the  country,  and  has  even  an  antique  look  beside  the  more 
modern  railroads,  is  fed  by  the  Concord,  so  that  we  were  still 
floating  on  its  familiar  waters.  It  i§  so  much  water  which 
the  river  lets  for  the  advantage  of  commerce.  There  ap- 
peared some  want  of  harmony  in  its  scenery,  since  it  was  not 
of  equal  date  with  the  woods  and  meadows  through  which  it 
is  led,  and  we  missed  the  conciliatory  influence  of  time  on 
land  and  water;  but  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  Nature  will  re- 
cover and  indemnify  herself,  and  gradually  plant  fit  shrubs 
and  flowers  along  its  borders.  Already  the  kingfisher  sat 
upon  a  pine  over  the  water,  and  the  bream  and  pickerel 
swam  below.  Thus  all  works  pass  directly  out  of  the  hands 
of  the  architect  into  the  hands  of  Nature,  to  be  perfected. 

It  was  a  retired  and  pleasant  route,  without  houses  or 
travellers,  except  some  young  men  who  were  lounging  upon 
a  bridge  in  Chelmsford,  who  leaned  impudently  over  the  rails 
to  pry  into  our  concerns,  but  we  caught  the  eye  of  the  most 
forward,  and  looked  at  him  till  he  was  visibly  discomfited. 
Not  that  there  was  any  peculiar  efficacy  in  our  look,  but 
rather  a  sense  of  shame  left  in  him  which  disarmed  him. 

It  is  a  very  true  and  expressive  phrase,  "He  looked  daggers 
at  me,"  for  the  first  pattern  and  prototype  of  all  daggers 
must  have  been  a  glance  of  the  eye.  First,  there  was  the 
glance  of  Jove's  eye,  then  his  fiery  bolt,  then,  the  material 
gradually  hardening,  tridents,  spears,  javelins,  and  finally, 
for  the  convenience  of  private  men,  daggers,  krisses,  and  so 
forth,  were  invented.  It  is  wonderful  how  we  get  about 
the  streets  without  being  wounded  by  these  delicate  and 
glancing  weapons,  a  man  can  so  nimbly  whip  out  his  rapier, 
or  without  being  noticed  carry  it  unsheathed.  Yet  after  all, 
it  is  rare  that  one  gets  seriously  looked  at. 

As  we  passed  under  the  last  bridge  over  the  canal,  just 
before  reaching  the  Merrimack,  the  people  coming  out  of 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  43 

church  paused  to  look  at  us  from  above,  and  apparently,  so 
strong  is  custom,  indulged  in  some  heathenish  comparisons ; 
but  we  were  the  truest  observers  of  this  sunny  day.  Accord- 
ing to  Hesiod, 

"The  seventh  is  a  holy  day, 
For  then  Latona  brought  forth  golden-rayed  Apollo," 

and  by  our  reckoning  this  was  the  seventh  day  of  the  week, 
and  not  the  first.  I  find  among  the  papers  of  an  old  Justice 
of  the  Peace  and  Deacon  of  the  town  of  Concord,  this  singular 
memorandum,  which  is  worth  preserving  as  a  relic  of  an 
ancient  custom.  After  reforming  the  spelling  and  grammar, 
it  runs  as  follows:  —  "Men  that  travelled  with  teams  on 
the  Sabbath,  Dec.  18th,  1803,  were  Jeremiah  Richardson 
and  Jonas  Parker,  both  of  Shirley.  They  had  teams  with 
rigging  such  as  is  used  to  carry  barrels,  and  they  were  travel- 
ling westward.  Richardson  was  questioned  by  the  Hon. 
Ephraim  Wood,  Esq.,  and  he  said  that  Jonas  Parker  was  his 
fellow  traveller,  and  he  further  said  that  a  Mr.  Longley  was 
his  employer,  who  promised  to  bear  him  out."  We  were 
the  men  that  were  gliding  northward,  this  Sept.  1st,  1839, 
with  still  team,  and  rigging  not  the  most  convenient  to  carry 
barrels,  unquestioned  by  any  Squire  or  Churjch  Deacon, 
and  ready  to  bear  ourselves  out,  if  need  were.  Vn  the  latter 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  according  to  the  historian 
of  Dunstable,  "Towns  were  directed  to  erect  la  cage'  near 
the  meeting-house,  and  in  this  all  offenders  against  the 
sanctity  of  the  Sabbath  were  confined."  Society  has  re- 
laxed a  little  from  its  strictness,  one  would  say,  but  I  presume 
that  there  is  not  less  religion  than  formerly.  If  the  ligature 
is  found  to  be  loosened  in  one  part,  it  is  only  drawn  the 
tighter  in  anothey! 

You  can  hardly  convince  a  man  of  an  error  in  a  life-time, 
but  must  content  yourself  with  the  reflection  that  the  progress 
of  science  is  slow.  If  he  is  not  convinced,  his  grand-children 
may  be.  The  geologists  tell  us  that  it  took  one  hundred 
years  to  prove  that  fossils  are  organic,  and  one  hundred  and 
fifty  more,  to  prove  that  they  are  not  to  be  referred  to  the 
Noachian  deluge.  I  am  not  sure  but  I  should  betake  myself 
in  extremities  to  the  liberal  divinities  of  Greece,  rather  than 
to  my  country's  God.  Jehovah,  though  with  us  he  has 
acquired  new  attributes,  is  more  absolute  and  unapproach- 


44  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

able,  but  hardly  more  divine,  than  Jove.  He  is  not  so  much 
of  a  gentleman,  among  gods,  not  so  gracious  and  catholic, 
he  does  not  exert  so  intimate  and  genial  an  influence  on 
nature,  as  many  a  god  of  the  Greeks.  I  should  fear  the 
infinite  power  and  inflexible  justice  of  the  almighty  mortal, 
hardly  as  yet  apotheosized,  so  wholly  masculine,  with  no 
sister  Juno,  no  Apollo,  no  Venus,  nor  Minerva,  to  intercede  for 
me,  6v/xu>  ^nXiovcra.  re,  KrjSoficvrj  re.  The  Grecian  are  youth- 
ful and  erring  and  fallen  gods,  with  the  vices  of  men,  but  in 
many  important  respects  essentially  of  the  divine  race.  In 
my  Pantheon,  Pan  still  reigns  in  his  pristine  glory,  with  his 
ruddy  face,  his  flowing  beard,  and  his  shaggy  body,  his  pipe 
and  his  crook,  his  nymph  Echo,  and  his  chosen  daughter 
Iambe ;  for  the  great  God  Pan  is  not  dead,  as  was  rumored. 
Perhaps  of  all  the  gods  of  New  England  and  of  ancient 
Greece,  I  am  most  constant  at  his  shrine. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  god  that  is  commonly  worshipped 
in  civilized  countries  is  not  at  all  divine,  though  he  bears  a 
divine  name,  but  is  the  overwhelming  authority  and  re- 
spectability of  mankind  combined.  Men  reverence  one 
another,  not  yet  God. '  If  I  thought  that  I  could  speak  with 
discrimination  and  impartiality  of  the  nations  of  Christendom, 
I  should  praise  them,  but  it  tasks  me  too  much.  They  seem 
to  be  the  most  civil  and  humane,  but  I  may  be  mistaken. 
Every  people  have  gods  to  suit  their  circumstances;  the 
Society  Islanders  had  a  god  called  Toahitu,  "in  shape  like 
a  dog ;  he  saved  such  as  were  in  danger  of  falling  from  rocks 
and  trees."  I  think  that  we  can  do  without  him,  as  we  have 
not  much  climbing  to  do.  Among  them  a  man  could  make 
himself  a  god  out  of  a  piece  of  wood  in  a  few  minutes,  which 
would  frighten  him  out  of  his  wits. 

I  fancy  that  some  indefatigable  spinster  of  the  old  school, 
who  had  the  supreme  felicity  to  be  born  in  "days  that  tried 
men's  souls,"  hearing  this,  may  say  with  Nestor,  another  of 
the  old  school,  "But  you  are  younger  than  I.  For  time  was 
when  I  conversed  with  greater  men  than  you.  For  not  at 
any  time  have  I  seen  such  men  nor  shall  see  them,  as  Peri- 
thous,  and  Dryas,  and  noi/ieva  Aawj/,"  that  is  probably 
Washington,  sole  "Shepherd  of  the  People."  And  when 
Apollo  has  now  six  times  rolled  westward,  or  seemed  to  roll, 
and  now  for  the  sixth  time  shows  his  face  in  the  east,  eyes 
well  nigh  glazed,  long  glassed,  which  have  fluctuated  only 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  45 

between  lamb's  wool  and  worsted,  explore  ceaselessly  some 
good  sermon  book.  For  six  days  shalt  thou  labor  and  do  all 
thy  knitting,  but  on  the  seventh,  forsooth  thy  reading. 
Happy  we  who  can  bask  in  this  warm  September  sun,  which 
illumines  all  creatures,  as  well  when  they  rest  as  when  they 
toil,  not  without  a  feeling  of  gratitude ;  whose  life  is  as  blame- 
less, how  blameworthy  soever  it  may  be,  on  the  Lord's  Mona- 
day  as  on  his  Suna-day. 

There  are  various,  nay  incredible  faiths;  why  should  we 
be  alarmed  at  any  of  them?  What  man  believes,  God  be- 
lieves. Long  as  I  have  lived,  and  many  blasphemers  as  I 
have  heard  and  seen,  I  have  never  yet  heard  or  witnessed 
any  direct  and  conscious  blasphemy  or  irreverence;  but  of 
indirect  and'  habitual  enough.  Where  is  the  man  who  is 
guilty  of  direct  and  personal  insolence  to  Him  that  made 
him?  —  Yet  there  are  certain  current  expressions  of  blas- 
phemous modes  of  viewing  things,  —  as,  frequently,  when 
we  say,  "He  is  doing  a  good  business,"  —  more  profane  than 
cursing  and  swearing.  There  is  sin  and  death  in  such  words. 
Let  not  the  children  hear  them.  —  My  neighbor  says  that 
his  hill  farm  is  "poor  stuff/ '  "only  fit  to  hold  the  world  to- 
gether," —  and  much  more  to  that  effect.  He  deserves 
that  God  should  give  him  a  better  for  so  free  a  treating  of 
his  gifts,  more  than  if  he  patiently  put  up  therewith.  But 
perhaps  my  farmer  forgets  that  his  lean  soil  has  sharpened 
his  wits.    This  is  a  crop  it  was  good  for. 

One  memorable  addition  to  the  old  mythology  is  due  to 
this  era,  —  the  Christian  fable.  With  what  pains,  and 
tears,  and  blood,  these  centuries  have  woven  this  and  added 
it  to  the  mythology  of  mankind.  The  new  Prometheus. 
With  what  miraculous  consent,  and  patience,  and  persist- 
ency, has  this  mythus  been  stamped  upon  the  memory  of 
the  race  ?  It  would  seem  as  if  it  were  in  the  progress  of  our 
mythology  to  dethrone  Jehovah,  and  crown  Christ  in  his  stead. 

tlf  ifis  not  a  tragical  life  we  live,  then  I  know  not  what  to 
call  it.  Such  a  story  as  that  of  Jesus  Christ,  —  the  history 
of  Jerusalem,  say,  being  a  part  of  the  Universal  History. 
The  naked,  the  embalmed,  unburied  death  of  Jerusalem  amid 
its  desolate  hills,  —  think  of  it.  In  Tasso's  poem  I  trust 
some  things  are  sweetly  buried.  Consider  the  snappish 
tenacity  with  which  they  preach  Christianity  still.  What 
are  time  and  space  to  Christianity,  eighteen  hundred  years, 


46  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

and  a  new  world?  —  that  the  humble  life  of  a  Jewish  peasant 
should  have  force  to  make  a  New  York  bishop  so  bigoted. 
Forty-four  lamps,  the  gift  of  kings,  now  burning  in  a  place 
called  the  Holy  Sepulchre ;  —  a  church  bell  ringing ;  —  some 
unaffected  tears  shed  by  a  pilgrim  on  Mount  Calvary  within 
the  week.  — 

"Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  when  I  forget  thee,  may  my  right 
hand  forget  her  cunning." 

"By  the  waters  of  Babylon  there  we  sat  down,  and  we 
wept  when  we  remembered  Zion." 

I  trust  that  some  may  be  as  near  and  dear  to  Buddha  or 
Christ,  or  Swedenborg,  who  are  without  the  pale  of  their 
churches.  It  is  necessary  not  to  be  Christian,  to  appreciate 
the  beauty  and  significance  of  the  life  of  Christ.  I  know 
that  some  will  have  hard  thoughts  of  me,  when  they  hear 
their  Christ  named  beside  my  Buddha,  yet  I  am  sure  that 
I  am  willing  they  should  love  their  Christ  more  than  my 
Buddha,  for  the  love  is  the  main  thing,  and  I  like  him  too. 
Why  need  Christians  be  still  intolerant  and  superstitious? 
The  simple-minded  sailors  were  unwilling  to  cast  overboard 
Jonah  at  his  own  request.  — 

"Where  is  this  love  become  in  later  age? 
Alas !  't  is  gone  in  endless  pilgrimage 
From  hence,  and  never  to  return,  I  doubt, 
Till  revolution  wheel  those  times  about." 

One  man  says,  — 

"The  world's  a  popular  disease,  that  reigns 
Within  the  froward  heart  and  frantic  brains 
Of  poor  distempered  mortals." 

Another  that 

—  "all  the  world's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players." 

The  world  is  a  strange  place  for  a  play-house  to  stand  within 
it.  Old  Drayton  thought  that  a  man  that  lived  here,  and 
would  be  a  poet,  for  instance,  should  have  in  him  certain 
"brave  translunary  things,"  and  a  "fine  madness"  should 
possess  his  brain.  Certainly  it  were  as  well  that  he  might 
be  up  to  the  occasion.  That  is  a  superfluous  wonder,  which 
Dr.  Johnson  expresses  at  the  assertion  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  47 

that  "his  life  has  been  a  miracle  of  thirty  years,  which  to 
relate,  were  not  history,  but  a  piece  of  poetry,  and  would 
sound  like  a  fable.,,  The  wonder  is  rather  that  all  men  do 
not  assert  as  much. 

Think  what  a  mean  and  wretched  place  this  world  is; 
that  half  the  time  we  have  to  light  a  lamp  that  we  may  see 
to  live  in  it.  This  is  half  our  fife.  Who  would  undertake 
the  enterprise  if  it  were  all?  And,  pray,  what  more  has  day 
to  offer?  A  lamp  that  burns  more  clear,  a  purer  oil,  say 
winter-strained,  that  so  we  may  pursue  our  idleness  with 
less  obstruction.  Bribed  with  a  little  sunlight  and  a  few 
prismatic  tints,  we  bless  our  Maker,  and  stave  off  his  wrath 
with  hymns. 

I  make  ye  an  offer, 

Ye  gods,  hear  the  scoffer, 

The  scheme  will  not  hurt  you, 

If  ye  will  find  goodness,  I  will  find  virtue. 

Though  I  am  your  creature, 

And  child  of  your  nature, 

I  have  pride  still  unbended, 

And  blood  undescended, 

Some  free  independence, 

And  my  own  descendants. 

I  cannot  toil  blindly, 

Though  ye  behave  kindly, 

And  I  swear  by  the  rood, 

I'll  be  slave  to  no  God. 

If  ye  will  deal  plainly, 

I  will  strive  mainly, 

If  ye  will  discover, 

Great  plans  to  your  lover, 

And  give  him  a  sphere 

Somewhat  larger  than  here. 

"Verily,  my  angels!  I  was  abashed  on  account  of  my 
servant,  who  had  no  Providence  but  me;  therefore  did  I 
pardon  him."  —  The  Gulistan  of  Sadi. 

Most  people  with  whom  I  talk,  men  and  women  even  of 
some  originality  and  genius,  have  their  scheme  of  the  uni- 
verse all  cut  and  dried,  —  very  dry,  I  assure  you,  to  hear,  dry 
enough  to  burn,  dry-rotted  and  powder-post,  methinks,  — 
which  they  set  up  between  you  and  them  in  the  shortest 
intercourse;     an  ancient  and  tottering  frame  with  all  its 


48  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

boards  blown  off.  They  do  not  walk  without  their  bed. 
Some  to  me  seemingly  very  unimportant  and  unsubstantial 
things  and  relations,  are  for  them  everlastingly  settled,  — 
as  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  and  the  like.  These  are 
like  the  everlasting  hills  to  them.  But  in  all  my  wanderings, 
I  never  came  across  the  least  vestige  of  authority  for  these 
things.  They  have  not  left  so  distinct  a  trace  as  the  deli- 
cate flower  of  a  remote  geological  period  on  the  coal  in  my 
grate.  The  wisest  man  preaches  no  doctrines;  he  has  no 
scheme;  ne  sees  no  rafter,  not  even  a  cobweb,  against  the 
heavens.  It  is  clear  sky.  If  I  ever  see  more  clearly  at  one 
time  than  at  another,  the  medium  through  which  I  see  is 
clearer.  To  see  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  see  there  standing, 
still  a  fixture,  that  old  Jewish  scheme!  What  right  have 
you  to  hold  up  this.^obstacle  to  my  understanding  you,  to 
your  understanding  ine !  You  did  not  invent  it;  it  was 
imposed  on  you.  Examine  your  authority.  Even  Christ, 
we  fear,  had  his  scheme,  his  conformity  to  tradition,  which 
slightly  vitiates  his  teaching.  He  had  not  swallowed  all 
formulas.  He  preached  some  mere  doctrines.  As  for  me, 
Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob  are  now  only  the  subtilest  imagi- 
nable essences,  which  would  not  stain  the  morning  sky.  Your 
scheme  must  be  the  framework  of  the  universe;,  all  other 
schemes  will  soon  be  ruins.  The  perfect  GooT  in  his  revela- 
tions of  himself  has  never  got  to  the  length  of  one  such  propo- 
sition as  you,  his  prophets,  state.  Have  you  learned  the 
alphabet  of  heaven,  and  can  count  three?  Do  you  know 
the  number  of  God's  family?  Can  you  put  mysteries  into 
words?  Do  you  presume  to  fable  of  the  ineffable?  Pray, 
what  geographer  are  you,  that  speak  of  heaven's  topography? 
Whose  friend  are  you  that  speak  of  God's  personality?  Do 
you,  Miles  Howard,  think  that  he  has  made  you  his  con- 
fidant ?  Tell  me  of  the  height  of  the  mountains  of  the  moon, 
or  of  the  diameter  of  space,  and  I  may  believe  you,  but  of 
the  secret  history  of  the  Almighty,  and  I  shall  pronounce 
thee  mad.  Yet  we  have  a  sort  of  family  history  of  our  God, 
—  so  have  the  Tahitians  of  theirs,  —  and  some  old  poet's 
grand  imagination  is  imposed  on  us  as  adamantine  everlast- 
ing truth,  and  God's  own  word ! 

The  New  Testament  is  an  invaluable  book,   though  I 
confess  to  having  been  slightly  prejudiced  against  it  in  my 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  49 

very  early  days  by  the  church  and  the  Sabbath  school,  so 
that  it  seemed,  before  I  read  it,  to  be  the  yellowest  book  in 
the  catalogue.  Yet  I  early  escaped  from  their  meshes.  It 
was  hard  to  get  the  commentaries  out  of  one's  head,  and 
taste  its  true  flavor.  —  I  think  that  Pilgrim's  Progress  is 
the  best  sermon  which  has  been  preached  from  this  text; 
almost  all  other  sermons  that  I  have  heard  or  heard  of,  have 
been  but  poor  imitations  of  this.  —  It  would  be  a  poor  story 
to  be  prejudiced  against  the  Life  of  Christ,  because  the  book 
has  been  edited  by  Christians.  In  fact,  I  love  this  book 
rarely,  though  it  is  a  sort  of  castle  in  the  air  to  me,  which  I 
am  permitted  to  dream.  Having  come  to  it  so  recently  and 
freshly,  it  has  the  greater  charm,  so  that  I  cannot  find  any 
to  talk  with  about  it.  I  never  read  a  novel,  they  have  so 
little  real  life  and  thought  in  them.  The  reading  which  I 
love  best  is  the  scriptures  of  the  several  nations,  though  it 
happens  that  I  am  better  acquainted  vrith  those  of  the"  Hin- 
doos, the  Chinese,  and  the  Persians,  than  of  the  Hebrews, 
which  I  have  come  to  last.  Give  me  one  of  these  Bibles, 
and  you  have  silenced  me  for  a  while.  When  I  recover  the 
use  of  my  tongue,  I  am  wont  to  worry  my  neighbors  with 
the  new  sentences,  but  commonly  they  cannot  see  that  there 
is  any  wit  in  them.  Such  has  been  my  experience  with  the 
New  Testament.  I  have  not  yet  got  to  the  crucifixion, 
I  have  read  it  over  so  many  times.  I  should  love  dearly  to 
read  it  aloud  to  my  friends,  some  of  whom  are  seriously  in- 
clined; it  is  so  good,  and  I  am  sure  that  they  have  never 
heard  it,  it  fits  their  case  exactly,  and  we  should  enjoy  it  so 
much  together,  —  but  I  instinctively  despair  of  getting  their 
ears.  They  soon  show,  by  signs  not  to  be  mistaken,  that  it 
is  inexpressibly  wearisome  to  them.  I  do  not  mean  to  imply 
that  I  am  any  better  than  my  neighbors ;  for,  alas !  I  know 
that  I  am  only  as  good,  though  I  love  better  books  than  they. 
It  is  remarkable,  that  notwithstanding  the  universal  favor 
with  which  the  New  Testament  is  outwardly  received,  and 
even  the  bigotry  with  which  it  is  defended,  there  is  no  hos- 
pitality shown  to,  there  is  no  appreciation  of,  the  order  of 
truth  with  which  it  deals.  I  know  of  no  book  that  has  so 
few  readers.  There  is  none  so  truly  strange,  and  heretical, 
and  unpopular.  To  Christians,  no  less  than  Greeks  and 
Jews,  it  is  foolishness  and  a  stumbling  block.  There  are, 
indeed,  severe  things  in  it  which  no  man  should  read  aloud 


50  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

but  once.  —  "Seek  first  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  —  "Lay 
not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  on  earth."  —  "If  thou  wilt 
be  perfect,  go  and  sell  that  thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor, 
and  thou  shalt  have  treasure  in  heaven."  —  "For  what  is  a 
man  profited,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  his 
own  soul?  or  what  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  his 
soul?"  —  Think  of  this,  Yankees!  —  "Verily  I  say  unto 
you,  if  ye  have  faith  as  a  grain  of  mustard  seed,  ye  shall  say 
unto  this  mountain,  Remove  hence  to  yonder  place ;  and  it 
shall  remove;  and  nothing  shall  be  impossible  unto  you." 
—  Think  of  repeating  these  things  to  a  New  England  audi- 
ence! thirdly,  fourthly,  fifteenthly,  till  there  are  three 
barrels  of  sermons !  Who,  without  cant,  can  read  them  aloud  ? 
Who,  without  cant,  can  hear  them,  and  not  go  out  of  the 
meeting-house?  They  never  were  read,  they  never  were 
heard.  Let  but  one  of  these  sentences  be  rightly  read  from 
any  pulpit  in  the  land,  and  there  would  not  be  left  one  stone 
of  that  meeting-house  upon  another. 

Yet  the  New  Testament  treats  of  man  and  man's  so-called 
spiritual  affairs  too  exclusively,  and  is  too  constantly  moral 
and  personal,  to  alone  content  me,  who  am  not  interested 
solely  in  man's  religious  or  moral  nature,  or  in  man  even. 
I  have  jiot  the  most  definite  designs  on  the  future.  Abso- 
lutely speaking,  Do  unto  others  as  you  would  that  they  should 
do  unto  you,  is  by  no  means  a  golden  rule,  but  the  best  of 
current  silver.  An  honest  man  would  have  but  little  oc- 
casion for  it.  It  is  golden  not  to  have  any  rule  at  all  in  such 
a  case.  The  book  has  never  been  written  which  is  to  be 
accepted  without  any  allowance.  Christ  was  a  sublime 
actor  on  the  stage  of  the  world.  He  knew  what  he  was 
thinking  of  when  he  said,  "Heaven  and  earth  shall  pass 
i  away,  but  my  words  shall  not  pass  away."  I  draw  near  to 
him  at  such  a  time.  Yet  he  taught  mankind  but  imperfectly 
how. to  .live;  his  thoughts  were  all  directed  toward  another 
•>  world.  There  is  another  kind  of  success  than  his.  Even 
here  we  have  a  sort  of  living  to  get,  and  must  buffet  it  some- 
what longer.  There  are  various  tough  problems  yet  to 
solve,  and  we  must  make  shift  to  live,  betwixt  spirit  and 
matter,  such  a  human  life  as  we  can. 

A  healthy  man,  with  steady  employment,  as  wood  chop- 
ping at  fifty  cents  a  cord,  and  a  camp  in  the  woods,  will  not 


ik 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  51 

be  a  good  subject  for  Christianity.  The  New  Testament 
may  be  a  choice  book  to  him  on  some,  but  not  on  all  or  most 
of  his  days.  He  will  rather  go  a-fishing  in  his  leisure  hours. 
The  apostles,  though  they  were  fishers  too,  were  of  the 
solemn  race  of  sea-fishers,  and  never  trolled  for  pickerel 
on  inland  streams. 

Men  have  a  singular  desire  to  be  good  without  being  good 
for  anything,  because,  perchance,  they  think  vaguely  that 
so  it  will  be  good  for  them  in  the  end.  The  sort  of  morality 
which  the  priest  inculcates  is  a  very  subtle  policy,  far  finer 
than  the  politicians',  and  the  world  is  very  successfully  ruled 
by  them  as  the  policemen.  It  is  not  worth  the  while  to  let 
our  imperfections  disturb  us  always.  The  conscience  really 
does  not,  and  ought, not  to,  monopolize  the  whole  of  our 
lives,  any  more  than  the  heart  or  the  head.  It  is  as  liable 
to  disease  as  any  other  part.  I  have  seen  some  whose  con- 
sciences, owing  undoubtedly  to  former  indulgence,  had 
grown  to  be  as  irritable  as  spoilt  children,  and  at  length  gave 
them  no  peace.  They  did  not  know  when  to  swallow  their 
cud,  and  their  lives  of  course  yielded  no  milk. 


Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the  house, 

Feeling  and  Thinking  propagate  the  sin 

By  an  unnatural  breeding  in  and  in. 

I  say,  Turn  it  out  doors, 

Into  the  moors. 

I  love  a  life  whose  plot  is  simple, 

And  does  not  thicken  with  every  pimple ; 

A  soul  so  sound  no  sickly  conscience  binds  it, 

That  makes  the  universe  no  worse  than  't  finds  it. 

I  love  an  earnest  soul, 

Whose  mighty  joy  and  sorrow 

Are  not  drowned  in  a  bowl, 

And  brought  to  life  to-morrow ; 

^hat  lives  one  tragedy. 

And  not  seventy ; 

A  conscience  worth  keeping, 

Laughing  not  weeping ; 

A  conscience  wise  and  steady, 

And  forever  ready ; 

Not  changing  with  events, 

Dealing  in  compliments; 

A  conscience  exercised  about 

Large  things,  where  one  may  doubt, 


52  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

I  love  a  soul  not  all  of  wood, 

Predestinated  to  be  good, 

But  true  to  the  backbone 

Unto  itself  alone, 

And  false  to  none ; 

Born  to  its  own  affairs, 

Its  own  joys  and  own  cares ; 

By  whom  the  work  which  God  begun 

Is  finished,  and  not  undone ; 

Taken  up  where  he  left  off, 

Whether  to  worship  or  to  scoff ; 

If  not  good,  why  then  evil, 

If  not  good  god,  good  devil. 

Goodness !  —  you  hypocrite,  come  out  of  that, 

Live  your  life,  do  your  work,  then  take  your  hat. 

I  have  no  patience  towards 

Such  conscientious  cowards. 

Give  me  simple  laboring  folk, 

Who  love  their  work, 

Whose  virtue  is  a  song 

To  cheer  God  along. 

I  was  once  reproved  by  a  minister  who  was  driving  a  poor 
beast  to  some  meeting-house  horse-sheds  among  the  hills  of 
New  Hampshire,  because  I  was  bending  my  steps  to  a  moun- 
tain-top on  the  Sabbath,  instead  of  a  church,  when  I  would 
have  gone  further  than  he  to  hear  a  true  word  spoken  on 
that  or  any  day.  He  declared  that  I  was  "breaking  the 
Lord's  fourth  commandment,"  and  proceeded  to  enumerate, 
in  a  sepulchral  tone,  the  disasters  which  had  befallen  him 
whenever  he  had  done  any  ordinary  work  on  the  Sabbath. 
He  really  thought  that  a  god  was  at  work  to  trip  up  those 
men  who  followed  any  secular  work  on  this  day,  and  did  not 
see  that  it  was  the  evil  conscience  of  the  workers  that  did  it. 
The  country  is  full  of  this  superstition,  so  that  when  one 
enters  a  village,  the  church,  not  only  really  but  from  associa- 
tion, is  the  ugliest  looking  building  in  it,  because  it  is  the  one 
in  which  human  nature  stoops  the  lowest  and  is  most  dis- 
graced. Certainly,  such  temples  as  these  shall  ere  long  cease 
to  deform  the  landscape. 

If  I  should  ask  the  minister  of  Middlesex  to  let  me  speak 
in  his  pulpit  on  a  Sunday,  he  would  object,  because  I  do  not 
pray  as  he  does,  or  because  I  am  not  ordained.  What  under 
the  sun  are  these  things  ? 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  53 

Really,  there  is  no  infidelity,  now-a-days,  so  great  as  that 
which  prays,  and  keeps  the  Sabbath,  and  rebuilds  the  churches. 
The  sealer  of  the  South  Pacific  preaches  a  truer  doctrine. 
The  church  is  a  sort  of  hospital  for  men's  souls,  and  as  full  of 
quackery  as  the  hospital  for  their  bodies.  Those  who  are 
taken  into  it  five  like  pensioners  in  their  Retreat  or  Sailor's 
Snug  Harbor,  where  you  may  see  a  row  of  religious  cripples 
sitting  outside  in  sunny  weather.  Let  not  the  apprehension 
that  he  may  one  day  have  to  occupy  a  ward  therein  dis- 
courage the  cheerful  labors  of  the  able-souled  man.  While 
he  remembers  the  sick  in  their  extremities,  let  him  not  look 
thither  as  to  his  goal.  One  is  sick  at  heart  of  this  pagoda 
worship.  It  is  like  the  beating  of  gongs  in  a  Hindoo  sub- 
terranean temple.  In  dark  places  and  dungeons  the 
preacher's  words  might  perhaps  strike  root  and  grow,  but 
not  in  broad  daylight  in  any  part  of  the  world  that  I  know. 
The  sound  of  the  Sabbath  bell  far  away,  now  breaking  on 
these  shores,  does  not  awaken  pleasing  associations,  but 
melancholy  and  sombre  ones  rather.  One  involuntarily 
rests  on  his  oar,  to  humor  his  unusually  meditative  mood. 
It  is  as  the  sound  of  many  catechisms  and  religious  books 
twanging  a  canting  peal  round  the  earth,  seeming  to  issue 
from  some  Egyptian  temple  and  echo  along  the  shore  of 
the  Nile,  right  opposite  to  Pharaoh's  palace  and  Moses  in 
the  bulrushes,  startling  a  multitude  of  storks  and  alligators 
basking  in  the  sun. 

Everywhere  "good  men"  sound  a  retreat,  and  the  word 
has  gone  forth  to  fall  back  on  innocence.  Fall  forward 
rather  on  to  whatever  there  is  there.  Christianity  only 
hopes.  It  has  hung  its  harp  on  the  willows,  and  cannot  sing 
a  song  in  a  strange  land.  It  has  dreamed  a  sad  dream,  and 
does  not  yet  welcome  the  morning  with  joy.  The  mother 
tells  her  falsehoods  to  her  child,  but  thank  Heaven,  the  child 
does  not  grow  up  in  its  parent's  shadow.  Our  mother's 
faith  has  not  grown  with  her  experience.  Her  experience 
has  been  too  much  for  her.  The  lesson  of  life  was  too  hard 
for  her  to  learn. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  almost  all  speakers  and  writers  feel 
it  to  be  incumbent  on  them,  sooner  or  later,  to  prove  or  to 
acknowledge  the  personality  of  God.  Some  Earl  of  Bridge- 
water,  thinking  it  better  late  than  never,  has  provided  for 
it  in  his  will.    It  is  a  sad  mistake.    In  reading  a  work  on 


54  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

agriculture,  we  have  to  skip  the  author's  moral  reflections, 
and  the  words  "Providence"  and  "He"  scattered  along  the 
page,  to  come  at  the  profitable  level  of  what  he  has  to  say. 
What  he  calls  his  religion  is  for  the  most  part  offensive  to 
the  nostrils.  He  should  know  better  than  expose  himself, 
and  keep  his  foul  sores  covered  till  they  are  quite  healed. 
There  is  more  religion  in  men's  science  than  there  is  science 
in  their  religion.  Let  us  make  haste  to  the  report  of  the 
1    committee  on  swine. 

A  man's  real  faith  is  never  contained  in  his  creed,  nor  is 
his  creed  an  article  of  his  faith.  The  last  is  never  adopted. 
This  it  is  that  permits  him  to  smile  ever,  and  to  live  even  as 
bravely  as  he  does.  And  yet  he  clings  anxiously  to  his  creed, 
as  to  a  straw,  thinking  that  that  does  him  good  service  be- 
cause his  sheet  anchor  does  not  drag. 

In  most  men's  religion,  the  ligature,  which  should  be  its 
umbilical  cord  connecting  them  with  divinity,  is  rather  like 
that  thread  which  the  accomplices  of  Cylon  held  in  their 
hands  when  they  went  abroad  from  the  temple  of  Minerva, 
the  other  end  being  attached  to  the  statue  of  the  goddess. 
But  frequently,  as  in  their  case,  the  thread  breaks,  being 
stretched,  and  they  are  left  without  an  asylum. 

"A  good  and  pious  man  reclined  his  head  on  the  bosom  of 
contemplation,  and  was  absorbed  in  the  ocean  of  a  revery. 
At  the  instant  when  he  awaked  from  his  vision,  one  of  his 
friends,  by  way  of  pleasantry,  said:  What  rare  gift  have 
you  brought  us  from  that  garden,  where  you  have  been  rec- 
reating? He  replied;  I  fancied  to  myself  and  said,  when 
I  can  reach  the  rose-bower,  I  will  fill  my  lap  with  the  flowers, 
and  bring  them  as  a  present  to  my  friends ;  but  when  I  got 
there,  the  fragrance  of  the  roses  so  intoxicated  me,  that  the 
skirt  dropped  from  my  hands.  —  'O  bird  of  dawn!  learn 
the  warmth  of  affection  from  the  moth;  for  that  scorched 
creature  gave  up  the  ghost,  and  uttered  not  a  groan :  These 
vain  pretenders  are  ignorant  of  him  they  seek  after ;  for  of 
him  that  knew  him  we  never  heard  again :  —  O  thou !  who 
towerest  above  the  flights  of  conjecture,  opinion,  and  com- 
prehension; whatever  has  been  reported  of  thee  we  have 
heard  and  read ;  the  congregation  is  dismissed,  and  life  drawn 
to  a  close ;  and  we  still  rest  at  our  first  encomium  of  thee ! ' " 
—  Sadi. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  55 

By  noon  we  were  let  down  into  the  Merrimack  through  the 
locks  at  Middlesex,  just  above  Pawtucket  Falls,  by  a  serene 
and  liberal-minded  man,  who  came  quietly  from  his  book, 
though  his  duties,  we  supposed,  did  not  require  him  to  open 
the  locks  on  Sundays.  With  him  we  had  a  just  and  equal 
encounter  of  the  eyes,  as  between  two  honest  men. 

The  movements  of  the  eyes  express  the  perpetual  and  un- 
conscious courtesy  of  the  parties.  It  is  said  that  a  rogue 
does  not  look  you  in  the  face,  neither  does  an  honest  man 
look  at  you  as  if  he  had  his  reputation  to  establish.  I  have 
seen  some  who  did  not  know  when  to  turn  aside  their  eyes  in 
meeting  yours.  A  truly  confident  and  magnanimous  spirit 
is  wiser  than  to  contend  for  the  mastery  in  such  en- 
counters. Serpents  alone  conquer  by  the  steadiness  of  their 
gaze.  My  friend  looks  me  in  the  face  and  sees  me,  that 
is  all. 

The  best  relations  were  at  once  established  between  us 
and  this  man,  and  though  few  words  were  spoken,  he  could 
not  conceal  a  visible  interest  in  us  and  our  excursion.  He 
was  a  lover  of  the  higher  mathematics,  as  we  found,  and  in 
the  midst  of  some  vast  sunny  problem,  when  we  overtook 
him  and  whispered  our  conjectures.  By  this  man  we  were 
presented  with  the  freedom  of  the  Merrimack.  We  now 
felt  as  if  we  were  fairly  launched  on  the  ocean-stream  of  our 
voyage,  and  were  pleased  to  find  that  our  boat  would  float 
on  Merrimack  water.  We  began  again  busily  to  put  in 
practice  those  old  arts  of  rowing,  steering,  and  paddling.  It 
seemed  a  strange  phenomenon  to  us  that  the  two  rivers  should 
mingle  their  waters  so  readily,  since  we  had  never  associated 
them  in  our  thoughts. 

As  we  glided  over  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Merrimack, 
between  Chelmsford  and  Dracut,  at  noon,  here  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  wide,  the  rattling  of  our  oars  was  echoed  over  the 
water  to  those  villages,  and  their  slight  sounds  to  us.  Their 
harbors  lay  as  smooth  and  fairy-like  as  the  Lido,  or  Syracuse, 
or  Rhodes,  in  our  imagination,  while,  like  some  strange 
roving  craft,  we  flitted  past  what  seemed  the  dwellings  of 
noble  home-staying  men,  seemingly  as  conspicuous  as  if 
on  an  eminence,  or  floating  upon  a  tide  which  came  up  to 
those  villagers'  breasts.  At  a  third  of  a  mile  over  the  water 
we  heard  distinctly  some  children  repeating  their  catechism 
in  a  cottage  near  the  shore,  while  in  the  broad  shallows 


56  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

between,  a  herd  of  cows  stood  lashing  their  sides,  and  waging 
war  with  the  flies. 

Two  hundred  years  ago  other  catechising  than  this  was 
going  on  here ;  for  here  came  the  sachem  Wannalancet,  and 
his  people,  and  sometimes  Tahatawan,  our  Concord  Sachem, 
who  afterwards  had  a  church  at  home,  to  catch  fish  at  the 
falls;  and  here  also  came  John  Elliot,  with  the  Bible  and 
Catechism  and  Baxter's  Call  to  the  Unconverted,  and  other 
tracts,  done  into  the  Massachusetts  tongue,  and  taught  them 
Christianity  meanwhile.  "This  place,"  says  Gookin,  re- 
ferring to  Wamesit, 

"being  an  ancient  and  capital  seat  of  Indians,  they  come  to 
fish  ;  and  this  good  man  takes  this  opportunity  to  spread  the 
net  of  the  gospel,  to  fish  for  their  souls."  —  "May  5th,  1674," 
he  continues,  "according  to  our  usual  custom,  Mr.  Eliot  and 
myself  took  our  journey  to  Wamesit,  or  Pawtuckett;  and 
arriving  there  that  evening,  Mr.  Eliot  preached  to  as  many 
of  them  as  could  be  got  together,  out  of  Matt.  xxii.  1-14, 
the  parable  of  the  marriage  of  the  king's  son.  We  met  at 
the  wigwam  of  one  called  Wannalancet,  about  two  miles 
from  the  town,  near  Pawtuckett  falls,  and  bordering  upon 
Merrimak  river.  This  person,  Wannalancet,  is  the  eldest 
son  of  old  Pasaconaway,  the  chief  est  sachem  of  Pawtuckett. 
He  is  a  sober  and  grave  person,  and  of  years,  between  fifty 
and  sixty.  He  hath  been  always  loving  and  friendly  to  the 
English."  As  yet,  however,  they  had  not  prevailed  on  him 
to  embrace  the  Christian  religion.  "But  at  this  time,"  says 
Gookin,  "May  6,  1674,"  —  "after  some  deliberation  and 
serious  pause,  he  stood  up,  and  made  a  speech  to  this  effect : 
—  'I  must  acknowledge  I  have,  all  my  days,  used  to  pass  in 
an  old  canoe,  (alluding  to  his  frequent  custom  to  pass  in  a 
canoe  upon  the  river)  and  now  you  exhort  me  to  change  and 
leave  my  old  canoe,  and  embark  in  a  new  canoe,  to  which 
I  have  hitherto  been  unwilling;  but  now  I  yield  up  myself 
to  your  advice,  and  enter  into  a  new  canoe,  and  do  engage  to 
pray  to  God  hereafter.'"  One  "Mr.  Richard  Daniel,  a 
gentleman  that  lived  in  Billerica,"  who  with  other  "persons 
of  quality"  was  present,  "desired  brother  Eliot  to  tell  the 
sachem  from  him,  that  it  may  be,  while  he  went  in  his  old 
canoe,  he  passed  in  a  quiet  stream ;  but  the  end  thereof  was 
death  and  destruction  to  soul  and  body.    But  now  he  went 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  57 

into  a  new  canoe,  perhaps  he  would  meet  with  storms  and 
trials,  but  yet  he  should  be  encouraged  to  persevere,  for  the 
end  of  his  voyage  would  be  everlasting  rest."  —  "Since  that 
time,  I  hear  this  sachem  doth  persevere,  and  is  a  constant 
and  diligent  hearer  of  God's  word,  and  sanctifieth  the  Sabbath, 
though  he  doth  travel  to  Wamesit  meeting  every  Sabbath, 
which  is  above  two  miles ;  and  though  sundry  of  his  people 
have  deserted  him,  since  he  subjected  to  the  gospel,  yet  he 
continues  and  persists."  1 

Already,  as  appears  from  the  records,  "At  a  General  Court 
held  at  Boston  in  New  England,  the  7th  of  the  first  month, 
1643-4."  —  "Wassamequin,  Nashoonon,  Kutchamaquin, 
Massaconomet,  and  Squaw  Sachem,  did  voluntarily  submit 
themselves"  to  the  English;  and  among  other  things  did 
"promise  to  be  willing  from  time  to  time  to  be  instructed 
in  the  knowledge  of  God."  Being  asked  "Not  to  do  any 
unnecessary  work  on  the  Sabbath  day,  especially  within  the 
gates  of  Christian  towns,"  they  answered,  "It  is  easy  to 
them ;  they  have  not  much  to  do  on  any  day,  and  they  can 
well  take  their  rest  on  that  day."  —  "So,"  says  Winthrop, 
in  his  Journal,  "we  causing  them  to  understand  the  articles, 
and  all  the  ten  commandments  of  God,  and  they  freely 
assenting  to  all,  they  were  solemnly  received,  and  then  pre- 
sented the  Court  with  twenty-six  fathom  more  of  wampom ; 
and  the  Court  gave  each  of  them  a  coat  of  two  yards  of  cloth, 
and  their  dinner ;  and  to  them  and  their  men,  every  of  them, 
a  cup  of  sack  at  their  departure ;  and  so  they  took  leave  and 
went  away." 

What  journeying  on  foot  and  on  horseback  through  the 
wilderness,  to  preach  the  gospel  to  these  minks  and  musk- 
rats  !  who  first,  no  doubt,  listened  with  their  red  ears  out  of  a 
natural  hospitality  and  courtesy,  and  afterward  from  curi- 
osity or  even  interest,  till  at  length  there  were  "praying 
Indians,"  and,  as  the  General  Court  wrote  to  Cromwell, 
the  "work  is  brought  to  this  perfection,  that  some  of  the 
Indians  themselves  can  pray  and  prophesy  in  a  comfortable 
manner." 

It  was  in  fact  an  old  battle  and  hunting  ground  through 
which  we  had  been  floating,  the  ancient  dwelling-place  of  a 
race  of  hunters  and  warriors.     Their  weirs  of  stone,  their 

1  Gookin'a  Hist.  Coll.  of  the  Indians  in  New  England,  1674. 


68  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

arrowheads  and  hatchets,  their  pestles,  and  the  mortars  in 
which  they  pounded  Indian  corn  before  the  white  man  had 
tasted  it,  lay  concealed  in  the  mud  of  the  river  bottom. 
Tradition  still  points  out  the  spots  where  they  took  fish  in 
the  greatest  numbers,  by  such  arts  as  they  possessed.  It  is  a 
rapid  story  the  historian  will  have  to  put  together.  Mian- 
tonimo,  —  Winthrop,  —  Webster.  Soon  he  comes  from 
Mount  Hope  to  Bunker  Hill,  from  bear-skins,  parched  corn, 
bows  and  arrows,  to  tiled  roofs,  wheat  fields,  guns  and  swords. 
Pawtucket  and  Wamesit,  where  the  Indians  resorted  in  the 
fishing  season,  are  now  Lowell,  the  city  of  spindles,  and 
Manchester  of  America,  which  sends  its  cotton  cloth  round 
the  globe.  Even  we  youthful  voyagers  had  spent  a  part  of 
our  lives  in  the  village  of  Chelmsford,  when  the  present  city, 
whose  bells  we  heard,  was  its  obscure  north  district  only, 
and  the  giant  weaver  was  not  yet  fairly  born.  So  old  are 
we ;  so  young  is  it. 

We  were  thus  entering  the  State  of  New  Hampshire  on 
the  bosom  of  the  flood  formed  by  the  tribute  of  its  innumer- 
able valleys.  The  river  was  the  only  key  which  could  unlock 
its  maze,  presenting  its  hills  and  valleys,  its  lakes  and  streams, 
in  their  natural  order  and  position.  The  Merrimack,  or 
Sturgeon  River,  is  formed  by  the  confluence  of  the  Pemi- 
gewasset,  which  rises  near  the  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains, 
and  the  Winnepisiogee,  which  drains  the  lake  of  the  same 
name,  signifying  "The  Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit."  From 
their  junction  it  runs  south  seventy-eight  miles  to  Massa- 
chusetts, and  thence  east  thirty-five  miles  to  the  sea.  I 
have  traced  its  stream  from  where  it  bubbles  out  of  the  rocks 
of  the  White  Mountains  above  the  clouds,  to  where  it  is  lost 
amid  the  salt  billows  of  the  ocean  on  Plum  Island  beach.  At 
first  it  comes  on  murmuring  to  itself  by  the  base  of  stately 
and  retired  mountains,  through  moist  primitive  woods  whose 
juices  it  receives,  where  the  bear  still  drinks  it,  and  the  cabins 
of  settlers  are  far  between,  and  there  are  few  to  cross  its 
stream;  enjoying  in  solitude  its  cascades  still  unknown  to 
fame ;  by  long  ranges  of  mountains  of  Sandwich  and  of  Squam, 
slumbering  like  tumuli  of  Titans,  with  the  peaks  of  Mosse- 
hillock,  the  Haystack,  and  Kearsarge  reflected  in  its  waters  ; 
where  the  maple  and  the  raspberry,  those  lovers  of  the  hills, 
flourish  amid  temperate  dews ;  —  flowing  long  and  full  of 
meaning,  but  untranslatable  as  its  name  Pemigewasset,  by 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  59 

many  a  pastured  Pelion  and  Ossa,  where  unnamed  muses 
haunt,  tended  by  Oreads,  Dryads,  Naiads,  and  receiving  the 
tribute  of  many  an  untasted  Hippocrene.  There  are  earth, 
air,  fire,  and  water,  —  very  well,  this  is  water,  and  down  it 
comes. 

Such  water  do  the  gods  distil, 

And  pour  down  every  hill 
For  their  New  England  men ; 

A  draught  of  this  wild  nectar  bring, 

And  I'll  not  taste  the  spring 
Of  Helicon  again. 

Falling  all  the  way,  and  yet  not  discouraged  by  the  lowest 
fall.  By  the  law  of  its  birth  never  to  become  stagnant,  for 
it  has  come  out  of  the  clouds,  and  down  the  sides  of  preci- 
pices worn  in  the  flood,  through  beaver  dams  broke  loose, 
not  splitting  but  splicing  and  mending  itself,  until  it  found 
a  breathing  place  in  this  low  land.  There  is  no  danger  now 
that  the  sun  will  steal  it  back  to  heaven  again  before  it  reach 
the  sea,  for  it  has  a  warrant  even  to  recover  its  own  dews 
into  its  bosom  again  with  interest  at  every  eve. 

It  was  already  the  water  of  Squam  and  Newfound  Lake 
and  Winnepisiogee,  and  White  Mountain  snow  dissolved, 
on  which  we  were  floating,  and  Smith's  and  Baker's  and  Mad 
rivers,  and  Nashua  and  Souhegan  and  Piscataquoag,  and 
Suncook  and  Soucook  and  Contoocook,  mingled  in  incal- 
culable proportions,  still  fluid,  yellowish,  restless  all,  with 
an  ancient,  ineradicable  inclination  to  the  sea. 

So  it  flows  on  down  by  Lowell  and  Haverhill,  at  which 
last  place  it  first  suffers  a  sea  change,  and  a  few  masts  betray 
the  vicinity  of  the  ocean.  Between  the  towns  of  Amesbury 
and  Newbury  it  is  a  broad  commercial  river,  from  a  third  to 
half  a  mile  in  width,  no  longer  skirted  with  yellow  and  crum- 
bling banks,  but  backed  by  high  green  hills  and  pastures,  with 
frequent  white  beaches  on  which  the  fishermen  draw  up  their 
nets.  I  have  passed  down  this  portion  of  the  river  in  a  steam- 
boat, and  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  watch  from  its  deck  the 
fishermen  dragging  their  seines  on  the  distant  shore,  as  in 
pictures  of  a  foreign  strand.  At  intervals  you  may  meet 
with  a  schooner  laden  with  lumber,  standing  up  to  Haverhill, 
or  else  lying  at  anchor  or  aground,  waiting  for  wind  or  tide ; 
until,  at  last,  you  glide  under  the  famous  Chain  Bridge,  and 
are  landed  at  Newburyport.    Thus  she  who  at  first  was 


60  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

"poore  of  waters,  naked  of  renowne,"  having  received  so 
many  fair  tributaries,  as  was  said  of  the  Forth, 

"Doth  grow  the  greater  still,  the  further  downe; 
Till  that  abounding  both  in  power  and  fame, 
She  long  doth  strive  to  give  the  sea  her  name;" 

or  if  not  her  name,  in  this  case,  at  least  the  impulse  of  her 
stream.  From  the  steeples  of  Newburyport,  you  may  review 
this  river  stretching  far  up  into  the  country,  with  many  a 
white  sail  glancing  over  it  like  an  inland  sea,  and  behold, 
as  one  wrote  who  was  born  on  its  head-waters,  "Down  out 
at  its  mouth,  the  dark  inky  main  blending  with  the  blue  above. 
Plum  Island,  its  sand  ridges  scolloping  along  the  horizon  like 
the  sea  serpent,  and  the  distant  outline  broken  by  many  a 
tall  ship,  leaning,  stilly  against  the  sky." 

Rising  at  an  equal  height  with  the  Connecticut,  the  Merri- 
mack reaches  the  sea  by  a  course  only  half  as  long,  and  hence 
has  no  leisure  to  form  broad  and  fertile  meadows  like  the 
former,  but  is  hurried  along  rapids,  and  down  numerous  falls 
without  long  delay.  The  banks  are  generally  steep  and 
high,  with  a  narrow  interval  reaching  back  to  the  hills,  which 
is  only  occasionally  and  partially  overflown  at  present,  and 
is  much  valued  by  the  farmers.  Between  Chelmsford  and 
Concord  in  New  Hampshire,  it  varies  from  twenty  to  seventy- 
five  rods  in  width.  It  is  probably  wider  than  it  was  formerly, 
in  many  places,  owing  to  the  trees  having  been  cut  down, 
and  the  consequent  wasting  away  of  its  banks.  The  influence 
of  the  Pawtucket  dam  is  felt  as  far  up  as  Cromwell's  Falls, 
and  many  think  that  the  banks  are  being  abraded  and  the 
river  filled  up  again  by  this  cause.  Like  all  our  rivers,  it  is 
liable  to  freshets,  and  the  Pemigewasset  has  been  known  to 
rise  twenty-five  feet  in  a  few  hours.  It  is  navigable  for 
vessels  of  burden  about  twenty  miles,  for  canal  boats  by 
means  of  locks  as  far  as  Concord  in  New  Hampshire,  about 
seventy-five  miles  from  its  mouth,  and  for  smaller  boats  to 
Plymouth,  one  hundred  and  thirteen  miles.  A  small  steam- 
boat once  plied  between  Lowell  and  Nashua,  before  the  rail- 
road was  built,  and  one  now  runs  from  Newburyport  to 
Haverhill. 

Unfitted  to  some  extent  for  the  purposes  of  commerce  by 
the  sand-bar  at  its  mouth,  see  how  this  river  was  devoted 
from  the  first  to  the  service  of  manufactures.    Issuing  from 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  61 

the  iron  region  of  Franconia,  and  flowing  through  still  uncut 
forests,  by  inexhaustible  ledges  of  granite,  with  Squam,  and 
Winnepisiogee,  and  Newfound,  and  Massabesic  lakes  for 
its  millponds,  it  falls  over  a  succession  of  natural  dams, 
where  it  has  been  offering  its  privileges  in  vain  for  ages,  until 
at  last  the  Yankee  race  came  to  improve  them.  Standing 
here  at  its  mouth,  look  up  its  sparkling  stream  to  its  source, 
—  a  silver  cascade  which  falls  all  the  way  from  the  White 
Mountains  to  the  sea,  —  and  behold  a  city  on  each  successive 
plateau,  a  busy  colony  of  human  beaver  around  every  fall. 
Not  to  mention  Newburyport  and  Haverhill,  see  Lawrence, 
and  Lowell,  and  Nashua,  and  Manchester,  and  Concord, 
gleaming  one  above  the  other.  When  at  length  it  has  es- 
caped from  under  the  last  of  the  factories  it  has  a  level  and 
unmolested  passage  to  the  sea,  a  mere  waste  water,  as  it  were, 
bearing  little  with  it  but  its  fame ;  its  pleasant  course  re- 
vealed by  the  morning  fog  which  hangs  over  it,  and  the  sails 
of  the  few  small  vessels  which  transact  the  commerce  of 
Haverhill  and  Newburyport.  But  its  real  vessels  are  rail- 
road cars,  and  its  true  and  main  stream,  flowing  by  an  iron 
channel  further  south,  may  be  traced  by  a  long  line  of  vapor 
amid  the  hills,  which  no  morning  wind  ever  disperses,  to 
where  it  empties  into  the  sea  at  Boston.  This  side  is  the 
louder  murmur  now.  Instead  of  the  scream  of  a  fish-hawk 
scaring  the  fishes,  is  heard  the  whistle  of  the  steam-engine, 
arousing  a  country  to  its  progress. 

This  river  too  was  at  length  discovered  by  the  white  man, 
"trending  up  into  the  land,"  he  knew  not  how  far,  possibly 
an  inlet  to  the  South  Sea.  Its  valley,  as  far  as  the  Winne- 
pisiogee, was  first  surveyed  in  1652.  The  first  settlers  of 
Massachusetts  supposed  that  the  Connecticut,  in  one  part 
of  its  course,  ran  north-west,  "so  near  the  great  lake  as  the 
Indians  do  pass  their  canoes  into  it  over  land."  From  which 
lake  and  the  "hideous  swamps"  about  it,  as  they  supposed, 
came  all  the  beaver  that  was  traded  between  Virginia  and 
Canada,  —  and  the  Potomac  was  thought  to  come  out  of 
or  from  very  near  it.  Afterward  the  Connecticut  came  so 
near  the  course  Of  the  Merrimack,  that  with  a  little  pains 
they  expected  to  divert  the  current  of  the  trade  into  the  latter 
river,  and  its  profits  from  their  Dutch  neighbors  into  their 
own  pockets. 

Unlike  the  Concord,  the  Merrimack  is  not  a  dead  but  a 


62  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

living  stream,  though  it  has  less  life  within  its  waters  and  on 
its  banks.  It  has  a  swift  current,  and,  in  this  part  of  its 
course,  a  clayey  bottom,  almost  no  weeds,  and  comparatively 
few  fishes.  We  looked  down  into  its  yellow  water  with  the 
more  curiosity,  who  were  accustomed  to  the  Nile-like  black- 
ness of  the  former  river.  Shad  and  alewives  are  taken  here 
in  their  season,  but  salmon,  though  at  one  time  more  numerous 
than  shad,  are  now  more  rare.  Bass,  also,  are  taken  occa- 
sionally ;  but  locks  and  dams  have  proved  more  or  less  de- 
structive to  the  fisheries.  The  shad  make  their  appearance 
early  in  May,  at  the  same  time  with  the  blossoms  of  the 
pyrus,  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  early  flowers,  which  is 
for  this  reason  called  the  sbad-blossom.  An  insect,  called 
the  shad-fly,  also  appears  at  the  same  time,  covering  the 
houses  and  fences.  We  are  told  that  "their  greatest  run  is 
when  the  apple  trees  are  in  full  blossom.  The  old  shad  re- 
turn in  August;  the  young,  three  or  four  inches  long,  in 
September.  These  are  very  fond  of  flies."  A  rather  pictur- 
esque and  luxurious  mode  of  fishing  was  formerly  practised 
on  the  Connecticut,  at  Bellows  Falls,  where  a  large  rock 
divides  the  stream.  "  On  the  steep  sides  of  the  island  rock," 
says  Belknap,  "hang  several  arm  chairs,  fastened  to  ladders, 
and  secured  by  a  counterpoise,  in  which  fishermen  sit  to 
catch  salmon  and  shad  with  dipping  nets."  The  remains  of 
Indian  weirs,  made  of  large  stones,  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the 
Winnepisiogee,  one  of  the  head-waters  of  this  river. 

It  cannot  but  affect  our  philosophy  favorably  to  be  re- 
minded of  these  shoals  of  migratory  fishes,  of  salmon,  shad, 
alewives,  marsh-bankers,  and  others,  which  penetrate  up 
the  innumerable  rivers  of  our  coast  in  the  spring,  even  to  the 
interior  lakes,  their  scales  gleaming  in  the  sun;  and  again, 
of  the  fry,  which  in  still  greater  numbers  wend  their  way 
downward  to  the  sea.  "And  is  it  not  pretty  sport,"  wrote 
Capt.  John  Smith,  who  was  on  this  coast  as  early  as  1614, 
"to  pull  up  twopence,  sixpence,  and  twelvepence,  as  fast  as 
you  can  haul  and  veer  a  line?"  —  "And  what  sport  doth 
yield  a  more  pleasing  content,  and  less  hurt  or  charge,  than 
angling  with  a  hook,  and  crossing  the  sweet  air  from  isle  to 
isle,  over  the  silent  streams  of  a  calm  sea." 

On  the  sandy  shore,  opposite  the  Glass-house  village  in 
Chelmsford,  at  the  Great  Bend,  where  we  landed  to  rest  us 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  63 

and  gather  a  few  wild  plums,  we  discovered  the  campanula 
rotwidifolia,  a  new  flower  to  us,  the  harebell  of  the  poets, 
which  is  common  to  both  hemispheres,  growing  close  to  the 
water.  Here,  in  the  shady  branches  of  an  apple  tree  on  the 
sand,  we  took  our  nooning,  where  there  was  not  a  zephyr 
to  disturb  the  repose  of  this  glorious  Sabbath  day,  and  we 
reflected  serenely  on  the  long  past  and  successful  labors  of 
Latona. 

"So  silent  is  the  cessile  air, 
That  every  cry  and  call, 
The  hills  and  dales,  and  forest  fair, 
Again  repeats  them  all. 

"The  herds  beneath  some  leafy  trees, 
Amidst  the  flowers  they  lie, 
The  stable  ships  upon  the  seas 
Tend  up  their  sails  to  dry." 


F 


As  we  thus  rested  in  the  shade,  or  rowed  leisurely  along, 
we  had  recourse,  from  time  to  time,  to  the  Gazetteer,  which] 
was  our  Navigator,  and  from  its  bald  natural  facts  extracted 
the  pleasure  of  poetry.  Beaver  river  comes  in  a  little  lower 
down,  draining  the  meadows  of  Pelham,  Windham,  and  Lon- 
donderry. The  Scotch-Irish  settlers  of  the  latter  town, 
according  to  this  authority,  were  the  first  to  introduce  the 
potato  into  New  England,  as  well  as  the  manufacture  of 
linen  cloth. 

Everything  that  is  printed  and  bound  in  a  book  contains 
some  echo  at  least  of  the  best  that  is  in  literature.     Indeed, 
the  best  books  have  a  use  like  sticks  and  stones,  which  is 
above  or  beside  their  design,  not  anticipated  in  the  preface, 
nor  concluded  in  the  appendix.    Even  Virgil's  poetry  serves 
a  very  different  use  to  me  to-day  from  what  it  did  to  his     , 
contemporaries.     It  has  often  an  acquired  and   accidental  . 
value  merely,  proving  that  man  is  still  man  in  the  world./ 
It  is  pleasant  to  meet  with  such  still  lines  as, 

"Jam  lseto  turgent  in  palmite  gemmaB;" 
Now  the  buds  swell  on  the  joyful  stem ; 
or 

"Strata  jacent  passim  sua  quseque  sub  arbore  poma." 
The  apples  lie  scattered  everywhere,  each  under  its  tree. 


64  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

In  an  ancient  and  dead  language,  any  recognition  of  living 
nature  attracts  us.  These  are  such  sentences  as  were  written 
while  grass  grew  and  water  ran.  It  is  no  small  recommenda- 
tion when  a  book  will  stand  the  test  of  mere  unobstructed 
sunshine  and  daylight. 

What  would  we  not  give  for  some  great  poem  to  read  now, 
which  would  be  in  harmony  with  the  scenery,  —  for  if  men 
read  aright,  methinks  they  would  never  read  anything  but 
poems.     No  history  nor  philosophy  can  supply  their  place. 

The  wisest  definition  of  poetry  the  poet  will  instantly 
prove  false  by  setting  aside  its  requisitions.  We  can,  there- 
fore, publish  only  our  advertisement  of  it. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  loftiest  written  wisdom  is 
either  rhymed,  or  in  some  way  musically  measured,  —  is, 
in  form  as  well  as  substance,  poetry;  and  a  volume  which 
should  contain  the  condensed  wisdom  of  mankind,  need  not 
have  one  rhythmless  line. 

Yet  poetry,  though  the  last  and  finest  result,  is  a  natural 
fruit.  As  naturally  as  the  oak  bears  an  acorn,  and  the  vine 
a  gourd,  man  bears  a  poem,  either  spoken  or  done.  It  is 
the  chief  and  most  memorable  success,  for  history  is  but 
a  prose  narrative  of  poetic  deeds.  What  else  have  the  Hin- 
doos, the  Persians,  the  Babylonians,  the  Egyptians  done, 
that  can  be  told?  It  is  the  simplest  relation  of  phenomena, 
and  describes  the  commonest  sensations  with  more  truth 
than  science  does,  and  the  latter  at  a  distance  slowly  mimics 
its  style  and  methods.  The  poet  sings  how  the  blood  flows 
in  his  veins.  He  performs  his  functions,  and  is  so  well  that 
he  needs  such  stimulus  to  sing  only  as  plants  to  put  forth 
leaves  and  blossoms.  He  would  strive  in  vain  to  modulate 
the  remote  and  transient  music  which  he  sometimes  hears, 
since  his  song  is  a  vital  function  like  breathing,  and  an  integral 
result  like  weight.  It  is  not  the  overflowing  of  life  but  of  its 
subsidence  rather,  and  is  drawn  from  under  the  feet  of  the 
poet.  It  is  enough  if  Homer  but  say  the  sun  sets.  He  is 
as  serene  as  nature,  and  we  can  hardly  detect  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  bard.  It  is  as  if  nature  spoke.  He  presents  to  us  the 
simplest  pictures  of  human  life,  so  that  childhood  itself  can 
understand  them,  and  the  man  must  not  think  twice  to  appre- 
ciate his  naturalness.  Each  reader  discovers  for  himself, 
that,  with  respect  to  the  simpler  features  of  nature,  succeed- 
ing poets  have  done  little  else  than  copy  his  similes.    His 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  65 

more  memorable  passages  are  as  naturally  bright,  as  gleams 
of  sunshine  in  misty  weather.  Nature  furnishes  him  not 
only  with  words,  but  with  stereotyped  lines  and  sentences 
from  her  mint. 

"As  from  the  clouds  appears  the  full  moon, 
All  shining,  and  then  again  it  goes  behind  the  shadowy  clouds, 
So  Hector,  at  one  time  appeared  among  the  foremost, 
And  at  another  in  the  rear,  commanding ;  and  all  with  brass 
He  shone,  like  to  the  lightning  of  aegis-bearing  Zeus." 

r  He  conveys  the  least  information,  even  the  hour  of  the  day, 
with  such  magnificence  and  vast  expense  of  natural  imagery, 
as  if  it  were  a  message  from  the  gods. 

"While  it  was  dawn,  and  sacred  day  was  advancing, 
For  that  space  the  weapons  of  both  flew  fast,  and  the  people  fell ; 
But  when  now  the  woodcutter  was  preparing  his  morning  meal, 
In  the  recesses  of  the  mountain,  and  had  wearied  his  hands 
With  cutting  lofty  trees,  and  satiety  came  to  his  mind, 
And  the  desire  of  sweet  food  took  possession  of  his  thoughts ; 
Then  the  Danaans,  by  their  valor,  broke  the  phalanxes, 
Shouting  to  their  companions  from  rank  to  rank." 

When  the  army  of  the  Trojans  passed  the  night  under 
arms,  keeping  watch  lest  the  enemy  should  re-embark  under 
cover  of  the  dark, 

"  They,  thinking  great  things,  upon  the  neutral  ground  of  war 
Sat  all  the  night ;  and  many  fires  burned  for  them. 
As  when  in  the  heavens  the  stars  round  the  bright  moon 
Appear  beautiful,  and  the  air  is  without  wind ; 
And  all  the  heights,  and  the  extreme  summits, 
And  the  wooded  sides  of  the  mountains  appear ;  and  from  the 

heavens  an  infinite  ether  is  diffused, 
And  all  the  stars  are  seen  •  and  the  shepherd  rejoices  in  his  heart ; 
So  between  the  ships  ana  the  streams  of  Xanthus 
Appeared  the  fires  of  the  Trojans  before  Ilium. 
A  thousand  fires  burned  on  the  plain ;  and  by  each 
Sat  fifty,  in  the  light  of  the  blazing  fire ; 
And  horses  eating  white  barley  and  corn, 
Standing  by  the  chariots,  awaited  fair-throned  Aurora." 

The  "white-armed  goddess  Juno,"  sent  by  the  Father  of 
gods  and  men  for  Iris  and  Apollo, 


66  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

"Went  down  the  Idsean  mountains  to  far  Olympus, 
As  when  the  mind  of  a  man,  who  has  come  over  much  earth, 
Sallies  forth,  and  he  reflects  with  rapid  thoughts, 
There  was  I,  and  there,  and  remembers  many  things ; 
So  swiftly  the  august  Juno  hastening  flew  through  the  air, 
And  came  to  high  Olympus. " 

His  scenery  is  always  true,  and  not  invented.     He  does 
not  leap  in  imagination  from  Asia  to  Greece,  through  mid  air, 


irreiij  fidXa  iroWd.  fieTai-6 


"Ovped  re  aKtottra,  da\d<raa  re  r)xfy<r<ra. 
for  there  are  very  many 
I  Shady  mountains  and  resounding  seas  between. 

If  his  messengers  repair  but  to  the  tent  of  Achilles,  we  do 
not  wonder  how  they  got  there,  but  accompany  them  step 
by  step  along  the  shore  of  the  resounding  sea.  Nestor's 
account  of  the  march  of  the  Pylians  against  the  Epeians 
is  extremely  lifelike :  — 

"Then  rose  up  to  them  sweet-worded  Nestor,  the  shrill  orator 
of  the  Pylians, 
And  words  sweeter  than  honey  flowed  from  his  tongue." 

This  time,  however,  he  addresses  Patroclus  alone.  —  "A 
certain  river,  Minyas  by  name,  leaps  seaward  near  to  Arene, 
where  we  Pylians  wait  the  dawn,  both  horse  and  foot.  Thence 
with  all  haste  we  sped  as  on  the  morrow  ere  't  was  noon-day, 
accoutred  for  the  fight,  even  to  Alpheus'  sacred  source,  &c." 
We  fancy  that  we  hear  the  subdued  murmuring  of  the  Minyas 
discharging  its  waters  into  the  main  the  livelong  night,  and 
the  hollow  sound  of  the  waves  breaking  on  the  shore,  —  until 
at  length  we  are  cheered  at  the  close  of  a  toilsome  march 
by  the  gurgling  fountains  of  Alpheus. 

There  are  few  books  which  are  fit  to  be  remembered  in 
our  wisest  hours,  but  the  Iliad  is  brightest  in  the  serenest 
days,  and  embodies  still  all  the  sunlight  that  fell  on  Asia 
Minor.  No  modern  joy  or  ecstasy  of  ours  can  lower  its 
height,  or  dim  its  lustre,  but  there  it  lies  in  the  east  of  liter- 
ature, as  it  were  the  earliest  and  latest  production  of  the 
mind.  The  ruins  of  Egypt  oppress  and  stifle  us  with  their 
dust,  foulness  preserved  in  cassia  and  pitch,  and  swathed 
in  linen ;  the  death  of  that  which  never  lived.    But  the  rays 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  67 

of  Greek  poetry  struggle  down  to  us,  and  mingle  with  the 
sunbeams  of  the  recent  day.  The  statute  of  Memnon  is 
cast  down,  but  the  shaft  of  the  Iliad  still  meets  the  sun  in  his 
rising.  — 

"Homer  is  gone ;  and  where  is  Jove?   and  where 
The  rival  cities  seven?     His  song  outlives 
Time,  tower,  and  god,  —  all  that  then  was  save  Heaven." 

So  too,  no  doubt,  Homer  had  his  Homer,  and  Orpheus 
his  Orpheus,  in  the  dim  antiquity  which  preceded  them. 
The  mythological  system  of  the  ancients,  —  and  it  is  still  the 
mythology  of  the  moderns,  the  poem  of  mankind,  —  inter- 
woven so  wonderfully  with  their  astronomy,  and  matching  in 
grandeur  and  harmony  the  architecture  of  the  heavens 
themselves,  seems  to  point  to  a  time  when  a  mightier  genius 
inhabited  the  earth.  But  after  all,  man  is  the  great  poet, 
and  not  Homer  or  Shakspeare;  and  our  language  itself, 
and  the  common  arts  of  life  are  his  work.  Poetry  is  so  uni- 
versally true  and  independent  of  experience,  that  it  does  not 
need  any  particular  biography  to  illustrate  it,  but  we  refer 
it  sooner  or  later  to  some  Orpheus  or  Linus,  and  after  ages 
to  the  genius  of  humanity,  and  the  gods  themselves. 

It  would  be  worth  the  while  to  select  our  reading,  for  books 
are  the  society  we  keep ;  to  read  only  the  serenely  true ;  never  . 
statistics,  nor  fiction,  nor  news,  nor  reports,  nor  periodicals,  -*LJ 
but  only  great  poems,  and  when  they  failed,  read  them  again,  ' 
or  perchance  write  more.  Instead  of-  other  sacrifice,  we 
might  offer  up  our  perfect  (reActa)  thoughts  to  the  gods 
daily,  in  hymns  or  psalms.  For  we  should  be  at  the  helm 
at  least  once  a  day.  The  whole  of  the  day  should  not  be  day- 
time ;  there  should  be  one  hour,  if  no  more,  which  the  day 
did  not  bring  forth.  Scholars  are  wont  to  sell  their  birth- 
right for  a  mess  of  learning.  But  is  it  necessary  to  know 
what  the  speculator  prints,  or  the  thoughtless  study,  or  the 
idle  read,  the  literature  of  the  Russians  and  the  Chinese,  or 
even  French  philosophy  and  much  of  German  criticism? 
Read  the  best  books  first,  or  you  may  not  have  a  chance  to 
read  them  at  all.  "There  are  the  worshippers  with  offerings, 
and  the  worshippers  with  mortifications;  and  again  the 
worshippers  with  enthusiastic  devotion;  so  there  are  those, 
the  wisdom  of  whose  reading  is  their  worship,  men  of  subdued 


68  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

passions,  and  severe  manners ;  —  This  world  is  not  for  him 
who  doth  not  worship;  and  where,  O  Arjoon,  is  there 
another?"  Certainly,  we  do  not  need  to  be  soothed  and 
entertained  always  like  children.  He  who  resorts  to  the 
easy  novel,  because  he  is  languid,  does  no  better  than  if  he 
took  a  nap.  The  front  aspect  of  great  thoughts  can  only 
be  enjoyed  by  those  who  stand  on  the  side  whence  they 
arrive.  Books,  not  which  afford  us  a  cowering  enjoyment, 
but  in  which  each  thought  is  of  unusual  daring ;  such  as  an 
idle  man  cannot  read,  and  a  timid  one  would  not  be  enter- 
tained by,  which  even  make  us  dangerous  to  existing  institu- 
tions, —  such  call  I  good  books. 

All  that  are  printed  and  bound  are  not  books ;  they  do  not 
necessarily  belong  to  letters,  but  are  oftener  to  be  ranked 
with  the  other  luxuries  and  appendages  of  civilized  life. 
Base  wares  are  palmed  off  under  a  thousand  disguises.  "  The 
way  to  trade,"  as  a  pedler  once  told  me,  "is  to  put  it  right 
through"  no  matter  what  it  is,  anything  that  is  agreed  on.  — 

"You  grov'ling  worldlings,  you  whose  wisdom  trades 
Where  light  ne'er  shot  his  golden  ray." 

By  dint  of  able  writing  and  pen-craft,  books  are  cunningly 
compiled,  and  have  their  run  and  success  even  among  the 
learned,  as  if  they  were  the  result  of  a  new  man's  thinking, 
and  their  birth  were  attended  with  some  natural  throes. 
But  in  a  little  while  their  covers  fall  off,  for  no  binding  will 
avail,  and  it  appears  that  they  are  not  Books  or  Bibles  at 
all.  There  are  new  and  patented  inventions  in  this  shape, 
purporting  to  be  for  the  elevation  of  the  race,  which  many 
a  pure  scholar  and  genius  who  has  learned  to  read  is  for  a 
moment  deceived  by,  and  finds  himself  reading  a  horse-rake, 
or  spinning  jenny,  or  wooden  nutmeg,  or  oak-leaf  cigar,  or 
steampower  press,  or  kitchen  range,  perchance,  when  he  was 
seeking  serene  and  biblical  truths.  — 

"Merchants,  arise, 
And  mingle  conscience  with  your  merchandise." 

Paper  is  cheap,  and  authors  need  not  now  erase  one  book  be- 
fore they  write  another,  t  Instead  of  cultivating  the  earth 
for  wheat  and  potatoes,  they  cultivate  literature,  and  fill  a 
place  in  the  Republic  of  Letters.  Or  they  would  fain  write 
for  fame  merely,  as  others  actually  raise  crops  of  grain  to 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  69 

be  distilled  into  brandy.  Books  are  for  the  most  part  wil- 
fully and  hastily  written,  as  parts  of  a  system,  to  supply  a 
want  real  or  imagined.  Books  of  natural  history  aim  com- 
monly to  be  hasty  schedules,  or  inventories  of  God's  prop- 
erty, by  some  clerk.  They  do  not  in  the  least  teach  the  divine 
view  of  nature,  but  the  popular  view,  or  rather  the  popular 
method  of  studying  nature,  and  make  haste  to  conduct  the 
persevering  pupil  only  into  that  dilemma  where  the  professors 
always  dwell.  — 

"To  Athens  gown'd  he  goes,  and  from  that  school 
Returns  unsped,  a  more  instructed  fool." 

They  teach  the  elements  really  of  ignorance,  not  of  knowledge, 
for  to  speak  deliberately  and  in  view  of  the  highest  truths, 
it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish  elementary  knowledge.  There 
is  a  chasm  between  knowledge  and  ignorance  which  the  arches 
of  science  can  never  span.  (A  book  should  contain  pure 
discoveries,  glimpses  of  terra  firma,  though  by  shipwrecked 
mariners,  and  not  the  art  of  navigation  by  those  who  have 
never  been  out  of  sight  of  land.  They  must  not  yield  wheat 
and  potatoes,  but  must  themselves  be  the  unconstrained  and 
natural  harvest  of  their  author's  lives.  — 

"What  I  have  learned  is  mine ;  I've  had  my  thought, 
And  me  the  Muses  noble  truths  have  taught." 

We  do  not  learn  much  from  learned  books,  but  from  true, 
sincere,  human  books,  from  frank  and  honest  biographies. 
The  life  of  a  good  man  will  hardly  improve  us  more  than  the 
life  of  a  freebooter,  for  the  inevitable  laws  appear  as  plainly 
in  the  infringement  as  in  the  observance,  and  our  lives  are 
sustained  by  a  nearly  equal  expense  of  virtue  of  some  kin$. 
The  decaying  tree,  while  yet  it  lives,  demands  sun,  wiriaj 
and  rain  no  less  than  the  green  one.  It  secretes  sap  and 
performs  the  functions  of  health.  If  we  choose,  we  may 
study  the  alburnum  only.  The  gnarled  stump  has  as  tender 
a  bud  as  the  sapling. 

i  At  least  let  us  have  healthy  books,  a  stout  horse-rake  or  a 
kitchen  range  which  is  not  cracked.  Let  not  the  poet  shed 
tears  only  for  the  public  weal.  He  should  be  as  vigorous 
as  a  sugar  maple,  with  sap  enough  to  maintain  his  own  ver- 
dure, beside  what  runs  into  the  troughs,  and  not  like  a  vine, 


70  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

which  being  cut  in  the  spring  bears  no  fruit,  but  bleeds  to 
death  in  the  endeavor  to  heal  its  wounds.  The  poet  is  he 
that  hath  fat  enough,  like  bears  and  marmots,  to  suck  his 
claws  all  winter.  He  hibernates  in  this  world,  and  feeds  on 
his  own  marrow.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  in  winter,  as  we 
walk  over  the  snowy  pastures,  of  those  happy  dreamers  that 
lie  under  the  sod,  of  dormice  and  all  that  race  of  dormant 
creatures,  which  have  such  a  superfluity  of  life  enveloped 
in  thick  folds  of  fur,  impervious  to  cold.  Alas,  the  poet  too 
is,  in  one  sense,  a  sort  of  dormouse  gone  into  winter  quarters 
of  deep  and  serene  thoughts,  insensible  to  surrounding  cir- 
cumstances; his  words  are  the  relation  of  his  oldest  and 
finest  memory,  a  wisdom  drawn  from  the  remotest  experi- 
ence. Other  men  lead  a  starved  existence,  meanwhile,  like 
hawks,  that  would  fain  keep  on  the  wing,  and  trust  to  pick 
up  a  sparrow  now  and  then. 

There  are  already  essays  and  poems,  the  growth  of  this 
land,  which  are  not  in  vain,  all  which,  however,  we  could 
conveniently  have  stowed  in  the  till  of  our  chest.  If  the  gods 
permitted  their  own  inspiration  to  be  breathed  in  vain,  these 
might  be  overlooked  in  the  crowd,  but  the  accents  of  truth 
are  as  sure  to  be  heard  at  last  on  earth  as  in  heaven.  They 
already  seem  ancient,  and  in  some  measure  have  lost  the 
traces  of  their  modern  birth.    Here  are  they  who 

"  ask  for  that  which  is  our  whole  life's  light, 

For  the  perpetual,  true,  and  clear  insight." 

I  remember  a  few  sentences  which  spring  like  the  sward  in 
its  native  pasture,  where  its  roots  were  never  disturbed,  and 
not  as  if  spread  over  a  sandy  embankment;  answering  to 
the  poet's  prayer, 

"Let  us  set  so  just 

A  rate  on  knowledge,  that  the  world  may  trust 

The  poet's  sentence,  and  not  still  aver 

Each  art  is  to  itself  a  flatterer." 

But,  above  all,  in  our  native  port,  did  we  not  frequent  the 
peaceful  games  of  the  Lyceum,  from  which  a  new  era  will 
be  dated  to  New  England,  as  from  the  games  of  Greece? 
For  if  Herodotus  carried  his  history  to  Olympia  to  read, 
after  the  cestus  and  the  race,  have  we  not  heard  such  his- 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  71 

tories  recited  there,  which  since  our  countrymen  have  read; 
as  made  Greece  sometimes  to  be  forgotten?  —  Philosophy, 
too,  has  there  her  grove  and  portico,  not  wholly  unfrequented 
in  these  days. 

Lately  the  victor,  whom  all  Pindars  praised,  has  won 
another  palm,  contending  with 

"Olympian  bards  who  sung 
Divine  ideas  below, 
Which  always  find  us  young, 
And  always  keep  us  so."  — 

What  earth  or  sea,  mountain  or  stream,  or  Muses'  spring  or 
grove,  is  safe  from  his  all-searching  ardent  eye,  who  drives 
off  Phoebus'  beaten  track,  visits  unwonted  zones,  makes  the 
gelid  Hyperboreans  glow,  and  the  old  polar  serpent  writhe, 
and  many  a  Nile  flow  back  and  hide  his  head !  — 

That  Phaeton  of  our  day, 
Who'd  make  another  milky  way, 
And  burn  the  world  up  with  his  ray ; 

By  us  an  undisputed  seer,  — 
Who'd  drive  his  flaming  car  so  near 
Unto  our  shuddering  mortal  sphere, 

Disgracing  all  our  slender  worth, 
And  scorching  up  the  living  earth, 
To  prove  his  heavenly  birth. 

The  silver  spokes,  the  golden  tire, 
Are  glowing  with  unwonted  fire, 
And  ever  nigher  roll  and  nigher ; 

The  pins  and  axle  melted  are, 

The  silver  radii  fly  afar, 

Ah,  he  will  spoil  his  Father's  car ! 

Who  let  him  have  the  steeds  he  cannot  steer? 
Henceforth  the  sun  will  not  shine  for  a  year. 
And  we  shall  Ethiops  all  appear. 

From  his 

"lips  of  cunning  fell 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle." 


72  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

And  yet,  sometimes, 

We  should  not  mind  if  on  our  ear  there  fell 
Some  less  of  cunning,  more  of  oracle. 

It  is  Apollo  shining  in  your  face.  0  rare  Contemporary,  let 
us  have  far  off  heats.  Give  us  the  subtler,  the  heavenlier 
though  fleeting  beauty,  which  passes  through  and  through, 
and  dwells  not  in  the  verse;  even  pure  water,  which  but 
reflects  those  tints  which  wine  wears  in  its  grain.  ^  Let  epic 
trade-winds  blow,  and  cease  this  waltz  of  inspirations.  Let 
us  oftener  feel  even  the  gentle  south-west  wind  upon  our 
cheeks  blowing  from  the  Indians'  heaven.  What  though 
we  lose  a  thousand  meteors  from  the  sky,  if  skyey  depths,  if 
star-dust  and  undissolvable  nebulae  remain?  What  though 
we  lose  a  thousand  wise  responses  of  the  oracle,  if  we  may 
have  instead  some  natural  acres  of  Ionian  earth? 
Though  we  know  well, 

"That 't  is  not  in  the  power  of  kings  [or  presidents]  to  raise 
A  spirit  for  verse  that  is  not  born  thereto, 
Nor  are  they  born  in  every  prince's  days;" 

yet  spite  of  all  they  sang  in  praise  of  their  "Eliza's  reign," 
we  have  evidence  that  poets  may  be  born  and  sing  in  our  day, 
in  the  presidency  of  James  K.  Polk, 

"And  that  the  utmost  powers  of  English  rhyme," 
Were  not  "within  her  peaceful  reign  confined." 

The  prophecy  of  Samuel  Daniel  is  already  how  much  more 
than  fulfilled! 

"And  who  in  time  knows  whither  we  may  vent 
The  treasure  of  our  tongue?     To  what  strange  shores 
This  gain  of  our  best  glory  shall  be  sent, 
T'  enrich  unknowing  nations  with  our  stores? 
What  worlds  in  th'  yet  unformed  Occident, 
May  come  refined  with  the  accents  that  are  ours." 

Enough  has  been  said  in  these  days  of  the  charm  of  fluent 
writing.  We  hear  it  complained  of  some  works  of  genius, 
that  they  have  fine  thoughts,  but  are  irregular  and  have  no 
flow.    But  even  the  mountain  peaks  in  the  horizon  are,  to 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  73 

the  eye  of  science,  parts  of  one  range.  We  should  consider 
that  the  flow  of  thought  is  more  like  a  tidal  wave  than  a  prone 
river,  and  is  the  result  of  a  celestial  influence,  not  of  any 
declivity  in  its  channel.  The  river  flows  because  it  runs  down 
hill,  and  descends  the  faster  as  it  flows  more  rapidly.  The 
reader  who  expects  to  float  down  stream  for  the  whole  voyage, 
may  well  complain  of  nauseating  swells  and  choppings  of 
the  sea  when  his  frail  shore-craft  gets  amidst  the  billows  of 
the  ocean  stream,  which  flows  as  much  to  sun  and  moon  as 
lesser  streams  to  it.  But  if  we  would  appreciate  the  flow  that 
is  in  these  books,  we  must  expect  to  feel  it  rise  from  the  page 
like  an  exhalation,  and  wash  away  our  critical  brains  like  burt 
millstones,  flowing  to  higher  levels  above  and  behind  ourselves. 
There  is  many  a  book  which  ripples  on  like  a  freshet,  and  flows 
as  glibly  as  a  mill  stream  sucking  under  a  causeway;  and 
when  their  authors  are  in  the  full  tide  of  their  discourse, 
Pythagoras  and  Plato  and  Jamblichus  halt  beside  them. 
Their  long,  stringy,  slimy  sentences  are  of  that  consistency 
that  they  naturally  flow  and  run  together.  They  read  as 
if  written  for  milita'ry  men,  for  men  of  business,  there  is  such 
a  despatch  in  them.  Compared  with  these,  the  grave  thinkers 
and  philosophers  seem  not  to  have  got  their  swaddling  clothes 
off;  they  are  slower  than  a  Roman  army  in  its  march,  the 
rear  camping  to-night  where  the  van  camped  last  night.  The 
wise  Jamblichus  eddies  and  gleams  like  a  watery  slough. 

"  How  many  thousand,  never  heard  the  name 
Of  Sidney,  or  of  Spenser,  or  their  books? 
And  yet  brave  fellows,  and  presume  of  fame, 

And  seem  to  bear  down  all  the  world  with  looks." 

The  ready  writer  seizes  the  pen,  and  shouts,  Forward !  Alamo 
and  Fanning !  and  after  rolls  the  tide  of  war.  The  very  walls 
and  fences  seem  to  travel.  But  the  most  rapid  trot  is  no  flow 
after  all,  —  and  thither  you  and  I,  at  least,  reader,  will  not 
follow. 

A  perfectly  healthy  sentence,  it  is  true,  is  extremely  rare. 
For  the  most  part  we  miss  the  hue  and  fragrance  of  the 
thought ;  as  if  we  could  be  satisfied  with  the  dews  of  the  morn- 
ing or  evening  without  their  colors,  or  the  heavens  without 
their  azure.  The  most  attractive  sentences  are,  perhaps, 
not  the  wisest,  but  the  surest  and  roundest.  They  are  spoken 
firmly  and  conclusively,  as  if  the  speaker  had  a  right  to  know 


74  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

what  he  says,  and  if  not  wise,  they  have  at  least  been  well 
learned.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  might  well  be  studied  if  only 
for  the  excellence  of  his  style,  for  he  is  remarkable  in  the 
midst  of  so  many  masters.  There  is  a  natural  emphasis  in 
his  style,  like  a  man's  tread,  and  a  breathing  space  between 
the  sentences,  which  the  best  of  modern  writing  does  not 
furnish.  His  chapters  are  like  English  parks,  or  say  rather 
like  a  western  forest,  where  the  larger  growth  keeps  down  the 
underwood,  and  one  may  ride  on  horse-back  through  the 
openings.  All  the  distinguished  writers  of  that  period, 
possess  a  greater  vigor  and  naturalness  than  the  more  modern, 
—  for  it  is  allowed  to  slander  our  own  time,  —  and  when  we 
read  a  quotation  from  one  of  them  in  the  midst  of  a  modern 
author,  we  seem  to  have  come  suddenly  upon  a  greener 
ground,  a  greater  depth  and  strength  of  soil.  It  is  as  if  a 
green  bough  were  laid  across  the  page,  and  we  are  refreshed 
as  by  the  sight  of  fresh  grass  in  mid-winter  or  early  spring. 
You  have  constantly  the  warrant  of  life  and  experience  in 
what  you  read.  The  little  that  is  said  is  eked  out  by  implica- 
tion of  the  much  that  was  done.  The  sentences  are  verduous 
and  blooming  as  evergreen  and  flowers,  because  they  are 
rooted  in  fact  and  experience,  but  our  false  and  florid  sentences 
have  only  the  tints  of  flowers  without  their  sap  or  roots. 
All  men  are  really  most  attracted  by  the  beauty  of  plain 
speech,  and  they  even  write  in  a  florid  style  in  imitation  of 
this.  They  prefer  to  be  misunderstood  rather  than  to  come 
short  of  its  exuberance.  Hussein  Effendi  praised  the  episto- 
lary style  of  Ibrahim  Pasha  to  the  French  traveller  Botta, 
because  of  "the  difficulty  of  understanding  it;  there  was," 
he  said,  "but  one  person  at  Jidda  who  was  capable  of  under- 
standing and  explaining  the  Pasha's  correspondence."  A 
man's  whole  life  is  taxed  for  the  least  thing  well  done.  It  is 
its  net  result.  Every  sentence  is  the  result  of  a  long  proba- 
tion. Where  shall  we  look  for  standard  English,  but  to  the 
words  of  a  standard  man?  The  word  which  is  best  said 
came  nearest  to  not  being  spoken  at  all,  for  it  is  cousin  to  a 
deed  which  the  speaker  could  have  better  done.  Nay,  almost 
it  must  have  taken  the  place  of  a  deed  by  some  urgent  neces- 
sity, even  by  some  misfortune,  so  that  the  truest  writer  will 
be  some  captive  knight,  after  all.  And  perhaps  the  fates 
had  such  a  design,  when,  having  stored  Raleigh  so  richly 
with  the  substance  of  life  and  experience,  they  made  him  a 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  75 

fast  prisoner,  and  compelled  him  to  make  his  words  his  deeds, 
and  transfer  to  his  expression  the  emphasis  and  sincerity  of 
his  action. 

Men  have  a  respect  for  scholarship  and  learning  greatly 
out  of  proportion  to  the  use  they  commonly  serve.  We  are 
amused  to  read  how  Ben  Jonson  engaged,  that  the  dull  masks 
with  which  the  royal  family  and  nobility  were  to  be  enter- 
tained, should  be  "grounded  upon  antiquity  and  solid  learn- 
ing." Can  there  be  any  greater  reproach  than  an  idle  learn- 
ing? Learn  to  split  wood,  at  least.  The  necessity  of  labor 
and  conversation  with  many  men  and  things, ^  to  the  scholar 
is  rarely  well  remembered;  steady  labor  with  the  hands, 
which  engrosses  the  attention  also,  is  unquestionably  the 
best  method  of  removing  palaver  and  sentimentality  out  of 
one's  style,  both  of  speaking  and  writing.  If  he  has  worked 
hard  from  morning  till  night,  though  he  may  have  grieved 
that  he  could  not  be  watching  the  train  of  his  thoughts  dur- 
ing that  time,  yet  the  few  hasty  lines  which  at  evening  record 
his  day's  experience  will  be  more  musical  and  true  than  his 
freest  but  idle  fancy  could  have  furnished.  Surely  the  writer 
is  to  address  a  world  of  laborers,  and  such  therefore  must  be 
his  own  discipline.  He  will  not  idly  dance  at  his  work  who 
has  wood  to  cut  and  cord  before  nightfall  in  the  short  days 
of  winter ;  but  every  stroke  will  be  husbanded,  and  ring  so- 
berly through  the  wood ;  and  so  will  the  strokes  of  that  scholar's 
pen,  which  at  evening  record  the  story  of  the  day,  ring  soberly, 
yet  cheerily,  on  the  ear  of  the  reader,  long  after  the  echoes 
of  his  axe  have  died  away.  The  scholar  may  be  sure  that  he 
writes  the  tougher  truth  for  the  calluses  on  his  palms.  They 
give  firmness  to  the  sentence.  Indeed,  the  mind  never  makes 
a  great  and  successful  effort  without  a  corresponding  energy 
of  the  body.  We  are  often  struck  by  the  force  and  precision 
of  style  to  which  hard-working  men,  unpractised  in  writing, 
easily  attain,  when  required  to  make  the  effort.  As  if  plain- 
ness, and  vigor,  and  sincerity,  the  ornaments  of  style,  were 
better  learned  on  the  farm  and  in  the  workshop  than  in  the 
schools.  The  sentences  written  by  such  rude  hands  are 
nervous  and  tough,  like  hardened  thongs,  the  sinews  of  the 
deer,  or  the  roots  of  the  pine.  As  for  the  graces  of  expression, 
a  great  thought  is  never  found  in  a  mean  dress ;  but  though 
it  proceed  from  the  lips  of  the  Woloffs,  the  nine  Muses  and  the 
three  Graces  will  have  conspired  to  clothe  it  in  fit  phrase. 


76  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Its  education  has  always  been  liberal,  and  its  implied  wit 
can  endow  a  college.  The  scholar  might  frequently  emulate 
the  propriety  and  emphasis  of  the  farmer's  call  to  his  team, 
and  confess  that  if  that  were  written  it  would  surpass  his 
labored  sentences.  Whose  are  the  truly  labored  sentences? 
From  the  weak  and  flimsy  periods  of  the  politician  and  lit- 
erary man,  we  are  glad  to  turn  even  to  the  description  of  work, 
the  simple  record  of  the  month's  labor  in  the  farmer's  al- 
manac, to  restore  our  tone  and  spirits.  A  sentence  should 
read  as  if  its  author,  had  he  held  a  plow  instead  of  a  pen,  could 
have  drawn  a  furrow  deep  and  straight  to  the  end.  The 
scholar  requires  hard  and  serious  labor  to  give  an  impetus 
to  his  thought.  He  will  learn  to  grasp  the  pen  firmly  so, 
and  wield  it  gracefully  and  effectively,  as  an  axe  or  a  sword. 
When  we  consider  the  weak  and  nerveless  periods  of  some 
literary  men,  who  perchance  in  feet  and  inches  come  up  to 
the  standard  of  their  race,  and  are  not  deficient  in  girth  also, 
we  are  amazed  at  the  immense  sacrifice  of  thews  and  sinews. 
What !  these  proportions,  —  these  bones,  —  and  this  their 
work!  Hands  which  could  have  felled  an  ox  have  hewed 
this  fragile  matter  which  would  not  have  tasked  a  lady's 
fingers !  Can  this  be  a  stalwart  man's  work,  who  has  a  mar- 
row in  his  back  and  a  tendon  Achilles  in  his  heel?  They 
who  set  up  the  blocks  of  Stonehenge  did  somewhat,  if  they 
only  laid  out  their  strength  for  once,  and  stretched  themselves. 
Yet,  after  all,  the  truly  efficient  laborer  will  not  crowd  his 
day  with  work,  but  will  saunter  to  his  task  surrounded  by  a 
wide  halo  of  ease  and  leisure,  and  then  do  but  what  he  loves 
best.  He  is  anxious  only  about  the  fruitful  kernels  of  time. 
Though  the  hen  should  sit  all  day,  she  could  lay  only  one  egg, 
and,  besides,  would  not  have  picked  up  materials  for  another. 
Let  a  man  take  time  enough  for  the  most  trivial  deed,  though 
it  be  but  the  paring  of  his  nails.  The  buds  swell  impercep- 
tibly, without  hurry  or  confusion,  as  if  the  short  spring  days 
were  an  eternity.  — 

Then  spend  an  age  in  whetting  thy  desire, 
Thou  need'st  not  hasten  if  thou  dost  stand  fast. 

Some  hours  seem  not  to  be  occasion  for  any  deed,  but  for 
resolves  to  draw  breath  in.  We  do  not  directly  go  about 
the  execution  of  the  purpose  that  thrills  us,  but  shut  our  doors 
behind  us,  and  ramble  with  prepared  mind,  as  if  the  half  were 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  77 

already  done.  Our  resolution  is  taking  root  or  hold  on  the 
earth  then,  as  seeds  first  send  a  shoot  downward  which  is  fed 
by  their  own  albumen,  ere  they  send  one  upward  to  the  fight. 

There  is  a  sort  of  homely  truth  and  naturalness  in  some 
books  which  is  very  rare  to  find,  and  yet  looks  cheap  enough. 
There  may  be  nothing  lofty  in  the  sentiment,  or  fine  in  the 
expression,  but  it  is  careless  country  talk.  Homeliness  is 
almost  as  great  a  merit  in  a  book  as  in  a  house,  if  the  reader 
would  abide  there.  It  is  next  to  beauty,  and  a  very  high 
art.  Some  have  this  merit  only.  The  scholar  is  not  apt 
to  make  his  most  familiar  experience  come  gracefully  to  the 
aid  of  his  expression.  Very  few  men  can  speak  of  Nature,  for 
instance,  with  any  truth.  They  overstep  her  modesty,  some- 
how or  other,  and  confer  no  favor.  They  do  not  speak  a  good 
word  for  her.  Most  cry  better  than  speak,  and  you  can  get 
more  nature  out  of  them  by  pinching  than  by  addressing  them. 
The  surliness  with  which  the  woodchopper  speaks  of  his  woods,  V 
handling  them  as  indifferently  as  his  axe,  is  better  than  the 
mealy-mouthed  enthusiasm  of  the  lover  of  Nature.  Better 
that  the  primrose  by  the  river's  brim  be  a  yellow  primrose, 
and  nothing  more,  than  that  it  be  something  less.  Aubrey 
relates  of  Thomas  Fuller  that  his  was  "  a  very  working  head, 
insomuch  that,  walking  and  meditating  before  dinner,  he 
would  eat  up  a  penny  loaf,  not  knowing  that  he  did  it.  His 
natural  memory  was  very  great,  to  which  he  added  the  art 
of  memory.  He  would  repeat  to  you  forwards  and  backwards 
all  the  signs  from  Ludgate  to  Charing-cross."  He  says  of 
Mr.  John  Hales,  that  "He  loved  Canarie,"  and  was  buried 

"under  an  altar  monument  of  black  marble with  a  too 

long  epitaph;"  of  Edmund  Halley,  that  he,  "at  sixteen 
could  make  a  dial,  and  then,  he  said,  he  thought  himself  a 
brave  fellow;"  of  William  Holder,  who  wrote  a  book  upon 
his  curing  one  Popham  who  was  deaf  and  dumb,  "he  was 
beholding  to  no  author;  did  only  consult  with  Nature." 
For  the  most  part,  an  author  consults  only  with  all  who  have 
written  before  him  upon  a  subject,  and  his  book  is  but  the 
advice  of  so  many.  But  a  good  book  will  never  have  been 
forestalled,  but  the  topic  itself  will  in  one  sense  be  new,  and 
its  author,  by  consulting  with  Nature,  will  consult  not  only 
with  those  who  have  gone  before,  but  with  those  who  may 
come  after.     There  is  always  room  and  occasion  enough  for 


78  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

a  true  book  on  any  subject ;  as  there  is  room  for  more  light 
the  brightest  day  and  more  rays  will  not  interfere  with  the 
first. 

We  thus  worked  our  way  up  this  river,  gradually  adjust- 
ing our  thoughts  to  novelties,  beholding  from  its  placid  bosom 
a  new  nature  and  new  works  of  men,  and  as  it  were  with  in- 
creasing confidence,  finding  Nature  still  habitable,  genial, 
and  propitious  to  us;  not  following  any  beaten  path,  but 
the  windings  of  the  river,  as  ever  the  nearest  way  for  us. 
Fortunately  we  had  no  business  in  this  country.  The  Con- 
cord had  rarely  been  a  river  or  rivus,  but  barely  fluvius,  or 
between  fluvius  and  lacus.  This  Merrimack  was  neither 
rivus  nor  fluvius  nor  lacus,  but  rather  amnis  here,  a  gently 
swelling  and  stately  rolling  flood  approaching  the  sea.  We 
could  even  sympathize  with  its  buoyant  tide,  going  to  seek  its 
fortune  in  the  ocean,  and  anticipating  the  time  when  "  being 
received  within  the  plain  of  its  freer  water,"  it  should  "beat 
the  shores  for  banks,"  — 

"campoque  recepta 
Liberioris  aquae,  pro  ripis  litora  pulsant." 

At  length  we  doubled  a  low  shrubby  islet,  called  Rabbit 
Island,  subjected  alternately  to  the  sun  and  to  the  waves, 
as  desolate  as  if  it  lay  some  leagues  within  the  icy  sea,  and 
found  ourselves  in  a  narrower  part  of  the  river,  near  the  sheds 
and  yards  for  picking  the  stone  known  as  the  Chelmsford 
granite,  which  is  quarried  in  Chelmsford  and  the  neighboring 
towns.  We  passed  Wicasuck  Island,  which  contains  seventy 
acres  or  more,  on  our  right  between  Chelmsford  and  Tyngs- 
boro'.  This  was  a  favorite  residence  of  the  Indians.  Ac- 
cording to  the  History  of  Dunstable,  "About  1663,  the  oldest 
son  of  Passaconaway  [Chief  of  the  Penacooks]  was  thrown 
into  jail  for  a  debt  of  £45,  due  to  John  Tinker,  by  one  of  his 
tribe,  and  which  he  had  promised  verbally  should  be  paid. 
To  relieve  him  from  his  imprisonment,  his  brother  Wan- 
nalancet  and  others,  who  owned  Wicasuck  Island,  sold  it 
and  paid  the  debt."  It  was,  however,  restored  to  the  Indians 
by  the  General  Court  in  1665.  After  the  departure  of  the 
Indians  in  1683,  it  was  granted  to  Jonathan  Tyng  in  payment 
for  his  services  to  the  colony,  in  maintaining  a  garrison  at 
his  house.    Tyng's  house  stood  not  far  from  Wicasuck  Falls. 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  79 

Gookin,  who,  in  his  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Robert  Boyle, 
apologizes  for  presenting  his  "matter  clothed  in  a  wilderness 
dress,"  says  that  on  the  breaking  out  of  Philip's  war  in  1675, 
there  were  taken  up  by  the  Christian  Indians  and  the  English 
in  Marlborough,  and  sent  to  Cambridge,  seven  "Indians 
belonging  to  Narragansett,  Long  Island,  and  Pequod,  who 
had  all  been  at  work  about  seven  weeks  with  one  Mr.  Jonathan 
Tyng,  of  Dunstable,  upon  Merrimack  River;  and  hearing 
of  the  war,  they  reckoned  with  their  master,  and  getting  their 
wages,  conveyed  themselves  away  without  his  privity,  and 
being  afraid,  marched  secretly  through  the  woods,  designing 
to  go  to  their  own  country."  However,  they  were  released 
soon  after.  Such  were  the  hired  men  in  those  days.  Tyng 
was  the  first  permanent  settler  of  Dunstable,  which  then 
embraced  what  is  now  Tyngsboro'  and  many  other  towns. 
In  the  winter  of  1675,  in  Philip's  war,  every  other  settler  left 
the  town,  but  "he,"  says  the  historian  of  Dunstable,  "forti- 
fied his  house;  and  although  'obliged  to  send  to  Boston  for 
his  food,'  sat  himself  down  in  the  midst  of  his  savage  enemies, 
alone,  in  the  wilderness,  to  defend  his  home.  Deeming  his 
position  an  important  one  for  the  defence  of  the  frontiers, 
in  Feb.  1676,  he  petitioned  the  Colony  for  aid,"  humbly  show- 
ing, as  his  petition  runs,  that  as  he  lived  "in  the  uppermost 
house  on  Merrimac  River,  lying  open  to  ye  enemy,  yet  being 
so  seated  that  it  is,  as  it  were,  a  watch-house  to  the  neighbor- 
ing towns,"  he  could  render  important  service  to  his  country 
if  only  he  had  some  assistance,  "there  being,"  he  said,  "never 
an  inhabitant  left  in  the  town  but  myself."  Wherefore  he 
requests  that  their  "Honors  would  be  pleased  to  order  him 
three  or  four  men  to  help  garrison  his  said  house,"  which  they 
did.  But  methinks  that  such  a  garrison  would  be  weakened 
by  the  addition  of  a  man.  — 

"Make  bandog  thy  scout  watch  to  bark  at  a  thief, 
Make  courage  for  life,  to  be  captain  chief ; 
Make  trap-door  thy  bulwark,  make  bell  to  begin, 
Make  gunstone  and  arrow  shew  who  is  within." 

Thus  he  earned  the  title  of  first  permanent  settler.  In  1694 
a  law  was  passed  "that  every  settler  who  deserted  a  town  for 
fear  of  the  Indians,  should  forfeit  all  his  rights  therein."  But 
now,  at  any  rate,  as  I  have  frequently  observed,  a  man  may 
desert  the  fertile  frontier  territories  of  truth  and  justice, 


80  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

which  are  the  State's  best  lands,  for  fear  of  far  more  insig- 
nificant foes,  without  forfeiting  any  of  his  civil  rights  therein. 
Nay,  townships  are  granted  to  deserters,  and  the  General 
Court,  as  I  am  sometimes  inclined  to  regard  it,  is  but  a  desert- 
ers' camp  itself. 

As  we  rowed  along  near  the  shore  of  Wicasuck  Island,  which 
was  then  covered  with  wood,  in  order  to  avoid  the  current, 
two  men,  who  looked  as  if  they  had  just  run  out  of  Lowell, 
where  they  had  been  waylaid  by  the  Sabbath,  meaning  to 
go  to  Nashua,  and  who  now  found  themselves  in  the  strange, 
natural,  uncultivated  and  unsettled  part  of  the  globe  which 
intervenes,  full  of  walls  and  barriers,  a  rough  and  uncivil 
place  to  them,  seeing  our  boat  moving  so  smoothly  up  the 
stream,  called  out  from  the  high  bank  above  our  heads  to 
know  if  we  would  take  them  as  passengers,  as  if  this  were  the 
street  they  had  missed;  that  they  might  sit  and  chat  and 
drive  away  the  time,  and  so  at  last  find  themselves  in  Nashua. 
This  smooth  way  they  much  preferred.  But  our  boat  was 
crowded  with  necessary  furniture,  and  sunk  low  in  the  water, 
and  moreover  required  to  be  worked,  for  even  it  did  not  pro- 
gress against  the  stream  without  effort ;  so  we  were  obliged 
to  deny  them  passage.  As  we  glided  away  with  even  sweeps, 
while  the  fates  scattered  oil  in  our  course,  the  sun  now  sinking 
behind  the  alders  on  the  distant  shore,  we  could  still  see  them 
far  off  over  the  water,  running  along  the  shore  and  climbing 
over  the  rocks  and  fallen  trees  like  insects,  —  for  they  did 
not  know  any  better  than  we  that  they  were  on  an  island,  — 
the  unsympathizing  river  ever  flowing  in  an  opposite  direc- 
tion ;  until,  having  reached  the  entrance  of  the  Island  Brook, 
which  they  had  probably  crossed  upon  the  locks  below,  they 
found  a  more  effectual  barrier  to  their  progress.  They  seemed 
to  be  learning  much  in  a  little  time.  They  ran  about  like 
ants  on  a  burning  brand,  and  once  more  they  tried  the  river 
here,  and  once  more  there,  to  see  if  water  still  indeed  was 
not  to  be  walked  on,  as  if  a  new  thought  inspired  them,  and 
by  some  peculiar  disposition  of  the  limbs  they  could  accom- 
plish it.  At  length  sober  common  sense  seemed  to  have 
resumed  its  sway,  and  they  concluded  that  what  they  had 
so  long  heard  must  be  true,  and  resolved  to  ford  the  shallower 
stream.  When  nearly  a  mile  distant  we  could  see  them 
stripping  off  their  clothes  and  preparing  for  this  experiment  ; 
yet  it  seemed  likely  that  a  new  dilemma  would  arise,  they  were 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  81 

so  thoughtlessly  throwing  away  their  clothes  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  stream,  as  in  the  case  of  the  countryman  with 
his  corn,  his  fox,  and  his  goose,  which  had  to  be  transported 
one  at  a  time.  Whether  they  got  safely  through,  or  went 
round  by  the  locks  we  never  learned.  We  could  not  help 
being  struck  by  the  seeming,  though  innocent  indifference 
of  Nature  to  these  men's  necessities,  while  elsewhere  she  was 
equally  serving  others.  Like  a  true  benefactress,  the  secret 
of  her  service  is  unchangeableness.  Thus  is  the  busiest 
merchant,  though  within  sight  of  his  Lowell,  put  to  pilgrim's 
shifts,  and  soon  comes  to  staff  and  scrip  and  scallop  shell. 

We,  too,  who  held  the  middle  of  the  stream,  came  near 
experiencing  a  pilgrim's  fate,  being  tempted  to  pursue  what 
seemed  a  sturgeon  or  larger  fish,  for  we  remembered  that 
this  was  the  Sturgeon  river,  its  dark  and  monstrous  back 
alternately  rising  and  sinking  in  mid-stream.  We  kept 
falling  behind,  but  the  fish  kept  his  back  well  out,  and  did 
not  dive,  and  seemed  to  prefer  to  swim  against  the  stream, 
so,  at  any  rate,  he  would  not  escape  us  by  going  out  to  sea. 
At  length,  having  got  as  near  as  was  convenient,  and  looking 
out  not  to  get  a  blow  from  his  tail,  now  the  bow-gunner  de- 
livered his  charge,  while  the  stern-man  held  his  ground. 
But  the  halibut-skinned  monster,  in  one  of  these  swift-gliding 
pregnant  moments,  without  ever  ceasing  his  bobbing  up  and 
down,  saw  fit,  without  a  chuckle  or  other  prelude,  to  proclaim 
himself  a  huge  imprisoned  spar,  placed  there  as  a  buoy,  to 
warn  sailors  of  sunken  rocks.  So,  each  casting  some  blame 
upon  the  other,  we  withdrew  quickly  to  safer  waters. 

The  Scene-shifter  saw  fit  here  to  close  the  drama  of  this 
day,  without  regard  to  any  unities  which  we  mortals  prize. 
Whether  it  might  have  proved  tragedy,  or  comedy,  or  tragi- 
comedy or  pastoral,  we  cannot  tell.  This  Sunday  ended  by 
the  going  down  of  the  sun,  leaving  us  still  on  the  waves.  But 
they  who  are  on  the  water  enjoy  a  longer  and  brighter  twilight 
than  they  who  are  on  the  land,  for  here  the  water,  as  well  as 
the  atmosphere,  absorbs  and  reflects  the  light,  and  some  of 
the  day  seems  to  have  sunk  down  into  the  waves.  The  light 
gradually  forsook  the  deep  water,  as  well  as  the  deeper  air, 
and  the  gloaming  came  to  the  fishes  as  well  as  to  us,  and  more 
dim  and  gloomy  to  them,  whose  day  is  a  perpetual  twilight, 
though  sufficiently  bright  for  their  weak  and  watery  eyes. 
Vespers  had  already  rung  in  many  a  dim  and  watery  chapel 


82  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

down  below,  where  the  shadows  of  the  weeds  were  extended 
in  length  over  the  sandy  floor.  The  vespertinal  pout  had 
already  begun  to  flit  on  leathern  fin,  and  the  finny  gossips 
withdrew  from  the  fluvial  street  to  creeks  and  coves,  and  other 
private  haunts,  excepting  a  few  of  stronger  fin,  which  anchored 
in  the  stream,  stemming  the  tide  even  in  their  dreams.  Mean- 
while, like  a  dark  evening  cloud,  we  were  wafted  over  the 
cope  of  their  sky,  deepening  the  shadows  on  their  deluged 
fields. 

Having  reached  a  retired  part  of  the  river  where  it  spread 
out  to  sixty  rods  in  width,  we  pitched  our  tent  on  the  east 
side,  in  Tyngsboro',  just  above  some  patches  of  the  beach 
plum,  which  was  now  nearly  ripe,  where  the  sloping  bank 
was  a  sufficient  pillow,  and  with  the  bustle  of  sailors  making 
the  land,  we  transferred  such  stores  as  were  required  from  boat 
to  tent,  and  hung  a  lantern  to  the  tent-pole,  and  so  our  house 
was  ready.  With  a  buffalo  spread  on  the  grass,  and  a  blanket 
for  our  covering,  our  bed  was  soon  made.  A  fire  crackled 
merrily  before  the  entrance,  so  near  that  we  could  tend  it 
without  stepping  abroad,  and  when  we  had  supped,  we  put 
out  the  blaze,  and  closed  the  door,  and  with  the  semblance 
of  domestic  comfort,  sat  up  to  read  the  gazetteer,  to  learn  our 
latitude  and  longitude,  and  write  the  journal  of  the  voyage, 
or  listened  to  the  wind  and  the  rippling  of  the  river  till  sleep 
overtook  us.  There  we  lay  under  an  oak  on  the  bank  of  the 
stream,  near  to  some  farmer's  corn-field,  getting  sleep,  and 
forgetting  where  we  were;  a  great  blessing,  that  we  are 
obliged  to  forget  our  enterprises  every  twelve  hours.  Minks, 
muskrats,  meadow-mice,  woodchucks,  squirrels,  skunks, 
rabbits,  foxes  and  weasels,  all  inhabit  near,  but  keep  very 
close  while  you  are  there.  The  river  sucking  and  eddying 
away  all  night  down  toward  the  marts  and  the  seaboard, 
a  great  work  and  freshet,  and  no  small  enterprise  to  reflect 
on.  Instead  of  the  Scythian  vastness  of  the  Billerica  night, 
and  its  wild  musical  sounds,  we  were  kept  awake  by  the  bois- 
terous sport  of  some  Irish  laborers  on  the  railroad,  wafted  to 
us  over  the  water,  still  unwearied  and  unresting  on  this  seventh 
day,  who  would  not  have  done  with  whirling  up  and  down 
the  track  with  ever  increasing  velocity  and  still  reviving 
shouts,  till  late  in  the  night. 

One  sailor  was  visited  in  his  dreams  this  night  by  the  Evil 
Destinies,  and  all  those  powers  that  are  hostile  to  human 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  83 

life,  which  constrain  and  oppress  the  minds  of  men,  and  make 
their  path  seem  difficult  and  narrow,  and  beset  with  dangers, 
so  that  the  most  innocent  and  worthy  enterprises  appear 
insolent  and  a  tempting  of  fate,  and  the  gods  go  not  with  us. 
But  the  other  happily  passed  serene  and  even  ambrosial 
or  immortal  night,  and  his  sleep  was  dreamless,  or  only  the 
atmosphere  of  pleasant  dreams  remained,  a  happy  natural 
sleep  until  the  morning,  and  his  cheerful  spirit  soothed  and 
reassured  his  brother,  for  whenever  they  meet,  the  Good 
Genius  is  sure  to  prevail. 

"  I  thynke  for  to  touche  also 
The  worlde  whiche  neweth  everie  daie, 
So  as  I  can,  so  as  I  maie." 

—  Gowbr. 

"Gazed  on  the  Heavens  for  what  he  missed  on  Earth." 

Britannia's  Pastorals. 

When  the  first  light  dawned  on  the  earth,  and  the  birds 
awoke,  and  the  brave  river  was  heard  rippling  confidently 
seaward,  and  the  nimble  early  rising  wind  rustled  the  oak 
leaves  about  our  tent,  all  men,  having  reinforced  their  bodies 
and  their  souls  with  sleep,  and  cast  aside  doubt  and  fear, 
were  invited  to  unattempted  adventures. 

One  of  us  took  the  boat  over  to  the  opposite  shore,  which 
was  flat  and  accessible,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant,  to  empty 
it  of  water  and  wash  out  the  clay,  while  the  other  kindled  a 
fire  and  got  breakfast  ready.  At  an  early  hour  we  were 
again  on  our  way,  rowing  through  the  fog  as  before,  the  river 
already  awake,  and  a  million  crisped  waves  come  forth  to 
meet  the  sun  when  he  should  show  himself.  The  country- 
men, recruited  by  their  day  of  rest,  were  already  stirring, 
and  had  begun  to  cross  the  ferry  on  the  business  of  the  week. 
This  ferry  was  as  busy  as  a  beaver  dam,  and  all  the  world 
seemed  anxious  to  get  across  the  Merrimack  River  at  this 
particular  point,  waiting  to  get  set  over,  —  children  with 
their  two  cents  done  up  in  paper,  jail-birds  broke  loose  and 
constable  with  warrant,  travellers  from  distant  lands  to 
distant  lands,  men  and  women  to  whom  the  Merrimack 


84  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

River  was  a  bar.  There  stands  a  gig  in  the  gray  morning, 
in  the  mist,  the  impatient  traveller  pacing  the  wet  shore 
with  whip  in  hand,  and  shouting  through  the  fog  after  the 
regardless  Charon  and  his  retreating  ark,  as  if  he  might 
throw  that  passenger  overboard  and  return  forthwith  for 
himself;  he  will  compensate  him.  He  is  to  break  his  fast 
at  some  unseen  place  on  the  opposite  side.  It  may  be  Led- 
yard  or  the  Wandering  Jew.  Whence  pray  did  he  come  out 
of  the  foggy  night?  and  whither  through  the  sunny  day  will 
he  go?  We  observe  only  his  transit;  important  to  us,  for- 
gotten by  him,  transiting  all  day.  There  are  two  of  them. 
May  be,  they  are  Virgil  and  Dante.  But  when  they  crossed 
the  Styx,  none  were  seen  bound  up  or  down  the  stream,  that 
I  remember.  It  is  only  a  transjectus,  a  transitory  voyage, 
like  life  itself,  none  but  the  long-lived  gods  bound  up  or  down 
the  stream.  Many  of  these  Monday  men  are  ministers,  no 
doubt,  reseeking  their  parishes  with  hired  horses,  with  ser- 
mons in  their  valises  all  read  and  gutted,  the  day  after  never 
with  them.  They  cross  each  other's  routes  all  the  country 
over  like  woof  and  warp,  making  a  garment  of  loose  texture ; 
vacation  now  for  six  days.  They  stop  to  pick  nuts  and 
berries,  and  gather  apples  by  the  wayside  at  their  leisure. 
Good  religious  men,  with  the  love  of  men  in  their  hearts, 
and  the  means  to  pay  their  toll  in  their  pockets.  We  got 
over  this  ferry  chain  without  scraping,  rowing  athwart  the 
tide  of  travel,  —  no  toll  from  us  that  day. 

The  fog  dispersed  and  we  rowed  leisurely  along  through 
Tyngsboro',  with  a  clear  sky  and  a  mild  atmosphere,  leaving 
the  habitations  of  men  behind  and  penetrating  yet  further 
into  the  territory  of  ancient  Dunstable.  It  was  from  Dun- 
stable, then  a  frontier  town,  that  the  famous  Capt.  Lovewell, 
with  his  company,  marched  in  quest  of  the  Indians  on  the 
18th  of  April,  1725.  He  was  the  son  of  "an  ensign  in  the 
army  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  who  came  to  this  country,  and 
settled  at  Dunstable,  where  he  died  at  the  great  age  of  one 
hundred  and  twenty  years."  In  the  words  of  the  old  nursery 
tale,  sung  about  a  hundred  years  ago,  — 

"He  and  his  valiant  soldiers  did  range  the  woods  full  wide, 
And  hardships  they  endured  to  quell  the  Indian's  pride." 

In  the  shaggy  pine  forest  of  Pequawket  they  met  the  "rebel 
Indians,"  and  prevailed,  after  a  bloody  fight,  and  a  remnant 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  85 

returned  home  to  enjoy  the  fame  of  their  victory.  A  town- 
ship called  LovewelTs  Town,  but  now,  for  some  reason,  or 
perhaps  without  reason,  Pembroke,  was  granted  them  by 
the  State. 

"Of  all  our  valiant  English,  there  were  but  thirty-four, 
And  of  the  rebel  Indians,  there  were  about  four  score ; 
And  sixteen  of  our  English  safely  home  return, 
The  rest  were  killed  and  wounded,  for  which  we  all  must  mourn. 

"Our  worthy  Capt.  Lovewell  among  them  there  did  die, 
They  killed  Lieut.  Robbins.  and  wounded  good  young  Frye, 
Who  was  our  English  Chaplin ;  he  many  Indians  slew, 
And  some  of  them  he  scalped  while  bullets  round  him  flew." 

Our  brave  forefathers  have  exterminated  all  the  Indians, 
and  their  degenerate  children  no  longer  dwell  in  garrisoned 
houses,  nor  hear  any  war-whoop  in  their  path.  It  would  be 
well,  perchance,  if  many  an  "English  Chaplin"  in  these  days 
could  exhibit  as  unquestionable  trophies  of  this  valor  as  did 
"good  young  Frye."  We  have  need  to  be  as  sturdy  pioneers 
still  as  Miles  Standish,  or  Church,  or  Lovewell.  We  are  to 
follow  on  another  trail,  it  is  true,  but  one  as  convenient  for 
ambushes.  What  if  the  Indians  are  exterminated,  are  not 
savages  as  grim  prowling  about  the  clearings  to-day?  — 

"And  braving  many  dangers  and  hardships  in  the  way, 
They  safe  arrived  at  Dunstable  the  thirteenth  (?)  day  of  May." 

But  they  did  not  all  "safe  arrive  in  Dunstable  the  thir- 
teenth," or  the  fifteenth,  or  the  thirtieth  "day  of  May." 
Eleazer  Davis  and  Josiah  Jones,  both  of  Concord,  for  our 
native  town^had  seven  men  in  this  fight,  Lieutenant  Farwell, 
of  Dunstable,  and  Jonathan  Frye,  of  Andover,  who  were 
all  wounded,  were  left  behind,  creeping  toward  the  settle- 
ments. "After  travelling  several  miles,  Frye  was  left  and 
lost,"  though  a  more  recent  poet  has  assigned  him  company 
in  his  last  hours.  — 

L"A  man  he  was  of  comely  form, 

Polished  and  brave,  well  learned  and  kind ; 
Old  Harvard's  learned  halls  he  left 
Far  in  the  wilds  a  grave  to  find. 


86  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

"  Ah !  now  his  blood-red  arm  he  lifts ; 
His  closing  lids  he  tries  to  raise ; 
And  speak  once  more  before  he  dies, 
In  supplication  and  in  praise. 

I 
"He  prays  kind  Heaven  to  grant  success, 
Brave  Lovewell's  men  to  guide  and  bless, 
And  when  they've  shed  their  heart-blood  true, 
To  raise  them  all  to  happiness."  .  .  . 

"Lieutenant  Farwell  took  his  hand, 
His  arm  around  his  neck  he  threw, 
And  said,  '  brave  Chaplain  I  could  wish, 
That  Heaven  had  made  me  die  for  you.'" 

Farwell  held  out  eleven  days.  "A  tradition  says,"  as 
we  learn  from  the  history  of  Concord,  "that  arriving  at  a 
pond  with  Lieut.  Farwell,  Davis  pulled  off  one  of  his  moc- 
casins, cut  it  in  strings,  on  which  he  fastened  a  hook,  caught 
some  fish,  fried  and  ate  them.  They  refreshed  him,  but 
were  injurious  to  Farwell,  who  died  soon  after."  Davis  had 
a  ball  lodged  in  his  body,  and  his  right  hand  shot  off ;  but  on 
the  whole,  he  seems  to  have  been  less  damaged  than  his  com- 
panion. He  came  into  Berwick  after  being  out  fourteen 
days.  Jones  also  had  a  ball  lodged  in  his  body,  but  he  like- 
wise got  into  Saco  after  fourteen  days,  though  not  in  the  best 
condition  imaginable.  "He  had  subsisted,"  says  an  old 
journal,  "on  the  spontaneous  vegetables  of  the  forest;  and 
cranberries,  which  he  had  eaten,  came  out  of  wounds  he  had 
received  in  his  body."  This  was  also  the  case  with  Davis. 
The  last  two  reached  home  at  length,  safe  if  not  sound,  and 
lived  many  years  in  a  crippled  state  to  enjoy  their  pension. 

But  alas!  of  the  crippled  Indians,  and  their  adventures 
in  the  woods,  — 

"For  as  we  are  informed,  so  thick  and  fast  they  fell, 
Scarce  twenty  of  their  number  at  night  did  get  home  well,"  — 

how  many  balls  lodged  with  them,  how  it  fared  with  their 
cranberries,  what  Berwick  or  Saco  they  got  into,  and  finally 
what  pension  or  township  was  granted  them,  there  is  no 
journal  to  tell. 

It  is  stated  in  the  History  of  Dunstable,  that  just  before 
his  last  march,  Lovewell  was  warned  to  beware  of  the  am- 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  87 

buscades  of  the  enemy,  but  "he  replied,  'that  he  did  not  care 
for  them/  and  bending  down  a  small  elm  beside  which  he 
was  standing  into  a  bow,  declared  'that  he  would  treat  the 
Indians  in  the  same  way.'  This  elm  is  still  standing  [in 
Nashua],  a  venerable  and  magnificent  tree." 

Meanwhile,  having  passed  the  Horseshoe  Interval  in 
Tyngsboro',  where  the  river  makes  a  sudden  bend  to  the 
northwest,  —  for  our  reflections  have  anticipated  our  progress 
somewhat,  —  we  were  advancing  further  into  the  country 
and  into  the  day,  which  last  proved  almost  as  golden  as  the 
preceding,  though  the  slight  bustle  and  activity  of  the 
Monday  seemed  to  penetrate  even  to  this  scenery.  Now  and 
then  we  had  to  muster  all  our  energy  to  get  round  a  point, 
where  the  river  broke  rippling  over  rocks,  and  the  maples 
trailed  their  branches  in  the  stream,  but  there  was  generally 
a  back  water  or  eddy  on  the  side,  of  which  we  took  advantage. 
The  river  was  here  about  forty  rods  wide  and  fifteen  feet 
deep.  Occasionally  one  ran  along  the  shore,  examining  the 
country,  and  visiting  the  nearest  farm-houses,  while  the 
other  followed  the  windings  of  the  stream  alone,  to  meet 
his  companion  at  some  distant  point,  and  hear  the  report 
of  his  adventures;  how  the  farmer  praised  the  coolness  of 
his  well,  and  his  wife  offered  the  stranger  a  draught  of  milk, 
or  the  children  quarrelled  for  the  only  transparency  in  the 
window  that  they  might  get  sight  of  the  man  at  the  well. 
For  though  the  country  seemed  so  new,  and  no  house  was 
observed  by  us,  shut  in  between  the  high  banks  that  sunny 
day,  we  did  not  have  to  travel  far  to  find  where  men  in- 
habited, like  wild  bees,  and  had  sunk  wells  in  the  loose  sand 
and  loam  of  the  Merrimack.  There  dwelt  the  subject  of 
the  Hebrew  scriptures,  and  the  Esprit  des  Lois,  where  a  thin 
vaporous  smoke  curled  up  through  the  noon.  All  that  is 
told  of  mankind,  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Upper  Nile,  and 
the  Sunderbunds,  and  Timbuctoo,  and  the  Orinoko,  was 
experience  here.  Every  race  and  class  of  men  was  repre- 
sented. According  to  Belknap,  the  historian  of  New  Hamp- 
shire, who  wrote  sixty  years  ago,  here  too,  perchance,  dwelt 
"new  lights,"  and  free  thinking  men  even  then.  "The 
people  in  general  throughout  the  State,"  it  is  written,  "are 
professors  of  the  Christian  religion  in  some  form  or  other. 
There  is,  however,  a  sort  of  wise  men,  who  pretend  to  reject 


88  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

it ;  but  they  have  not  yet  been  able  to  substitute  a  better 
in  its  place." 

The  other  voyageur,  perhaps,  would  in  the  meanwhile 
have  seen  a  brown  hawk,  or  a  woodchuck,  or  a  musquash 
creeping  under  the  alders. 

We  occasionally  rested  in  the  shade  of  a  maple  or  a  willow, 
and  drew  forth  a  melon  for  our  refreshment,  while  we  con- 
templated at  our  leisure  the  lapse  of  the  river  and  of  human 
life ;  and  as  that  current,  with  its  floating  twigs  and  leaves, 
so  did  all  tilings  pass  in  review  before  us,  while  far  away  in 
cities  and  marts  on  this  very  stream,  the  old  routine  was 
proceeding  still.  There  is,  indeed,  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of 
men,  as  the  poet  says,  and  yet  as  things  flow  they  circulate, 
and  the  ebb  always  balances  the  flow.  All  streams  are  but 
tributary  to  the  ocean,  which  itself  does  not  stream,  and  the 
shores  are  unchanged  but  in  longer  periods  than  man  can 
measure.  Go  where  we  will,  we  discover  infinite  change  in 
particulars  only,  not  in  generals.  When  I  go  into  a  museum, 
and  see  the  mummies  wrapped  in  their  linen  bandages,  I  see 
that  the  times  began  to  need  reform  as  long  ago  as  when 
they  walked  the  earth.  I  come  out  into  the  streets,  and 
meet  men  who  declare  that  the  time  is  near  at  hand  for  the 
redemption  of  the  race.  But  as  men  lived  in  Thebes,  so  do 
they  live  in  Dunstable  to-day.  "Time  drinketh  up  the 
essence  of  every  great  and  noble  action,  which  ought  to  be 
performed,  and  is  delayed  in  the  execution,"  so  says  Veeshnoo 
Sarma ;  and  we  perceive  that  the  schemers  return  again  and 
again  to  common  sense  and  labor.  Such  is  the  evidence  of 
history.  — 

"Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen' d  with  the  process  of  the 
Suns."  -  *.v>M*,».v, 

There  are  secret  articles  in  our  treaties  with  the  gods,  of 
more  importance  than  all  the  rest,  which  the  historian  can 
never  know. 

There  are  many  skilful  apprentices,  but  few  master  work- 
men. On  every  hand  we  observe  a  truly  wise  practice,  in 
education,  in  morals,  and  in  the  arts  of  life,  the  embodied 
wisdom  of  many  an  ancient  philosopher.  Who  does  not 
see  that  heresies  have  some  time  prevailed,  that  reforms  have 
already  taken  place?    All  this  worldly  wisdom  might  be 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  89 

regarded  as  the  once  unamiable  heresy  of  some  wise  man. 
Some  interests  have  got  a  footing  on  the  earth  which  we 
have  not  made  sufficient  allowance  for.  Even  they  who 
first  built  these  barns,  and  cleared  the  land  thus,  had  some 
valor.  The  abrupt  epochs  and  chasms  are  smoothed  down 
in  history  as  the  inequalities  of  the  plain  are  concealed  by 
distance.  But  unless  we  do  more  than  simply  learn  the 
trade  of  our  time,  we  are  but  apprentices,  and  not  yet  masters 
of  the  art  of  life. 

Now  that  we  are  casting  away  these  melon  seeds,  how  can 
we  help  feeling  reproach?  He  who  eats  the  fruit,  should  at 
least  plant  the  seed ;  aye,  if  possible,  a  better  seed  than  that 
whose  fruit  he  has  enjoyed.  Seeds !  there  are  seeds  enough 
which  need  only  to  be  stirred  in  with  the  soil  where  they  lie, 
by  an  inspired  voice  or  pen,  to  bear  fruit  of  a  divine  flavor. 
O  thou  spendthrift !  Defray  thy  debt  to  the  world ;  eat  not 
the  seed  of  institutions,  as  the  luxurious  do,  but  plant  it 
rather,  while  thou  devourest  the  pulp  and  tuber  for  thy 
subsistence;  that  so,  perchance,  one  variety  may  at  last 
be  found  worthy  of  preservation. 

There  are  moments  when  all  anxiety  and  stated  toil  are 
becalmed  in  the  infinite  leisure  and  repose  of  nature.  All 
laborers  must  have  their  nooning,  and  at  this  season  of  the 
day,  we  are  all,  more  or  less,  Asiatics,  and  give  over  all  work 
and  reform.  While  lying  thus  on  our  oars  by  the  side  of 
the  stream,  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  our  boat  held  by  an  osier 
put  through  the  staple  in  its  prow,  and  slicing  the  melons, 
which  are  a  fruit  of  the  east,  our  thoughts  reverted  to  Arabia, 
Persia,  and  Hindostan,  the  lands  of  contemplation  and 
dwelling  places  of  the  ruminant  nations.  In  the  experience 
of  this  noontide  we  could  find  some  apology  even  for  the 
instinct  of  the  opium,  betel,  and  tobacco  chewers.  Mount 
Sabe>,  according  to  the  French  traveller  and  naturalist, 
Botta,  is  celebrated  for  producing  the  Kat  tree,  of  which 
"the  soft  tops  of  the  twigs  and  tender  leaves  are  eaten,"  says 
his  reviewer,  "and  produce  an  agreeable  soothing  excitement, 
restoring  from  fatigue,  banishing  sleep,  and  disposing  to 
the  enjoyment  of  conversation."  We  thought  that  we  might 
lead  a  dignified  oriental  life  along  this  stream  as  well,  and 
the  maple  and  alders  would  be  our  Kat  trees. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  escape  sometimes  from  the  rest- 
less class  of  Reformers.    What  if  these  grievances  exist? 


90  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

So  do  you  and  I.  Think  you  that  sitting  hens  are  troubled 
with  ennui  these  long  summer  days,  sitting  on  and  on  in  the 
crevice  of  a  hay-loft,  without  active  employment?  By  the 
faint  cackling  in  distant  barns,  I  judge  that  dame  Nature 
is  interested  to  know  how  many  eggs  her  hens  lay.  The 
Universal  Soul,  as  it  is  called,  has  an  interest  in  the  stacking 
of  hay,  the  foddering  of  cattle,  and  the  draining  of  peat 
meadows.  Away  in  Scythia,  away  in  India,  it  makes  butter 
and  cheese.  Suppose  that  all  farms  are  run  out,  and  we 
youths  must  buy  old  land  and  bring  it  to,  still  everywhere 
the  relentless  opponents  of  reform  bear  a  strange  resemblance 
to  ourselves;  or  perchance,  they  are  a  few  old  maids  and 
bachelors,  who  sit  round  the  kitchen  hearth,  and  listen  to 
the  singing  of  the  kettle.  "The  oracles  often  give  victory 
to  our  choice,  and  not  to  the  order  alone  of  the  mundane 
periods.  As,  for  instance,  when  they  say,  that  our  voluntary 
sorrows  germinate  in  us  as  the  growth  of  the  particular  life 
we  lead."  The  reform  which  you  talk  about  can  be  under- 
taken any  morning  before  unbarring  our  doors.  We  need 
not  call  any  convention.  When  two  neighbors  begin  to  eat 
corn  bread,  who  before  ate  wheat,  then  the  gods  smile  from 
ear  to  ear,  for  it  is  very  pleasant  to  them.  Why  do  you  not 
try  it?     Don't  let  me  hinder  you. 

There  are  theoretical  reformers  at  all  times,  and  all  the 
world  over,  living  on  anticipation.  Wolff,  traveling  in  the 
deserts  of  Bokhara,  says :  "Another  party  of  derveeshes  came 
to  me  and  observed,  'The  time  will  come  when  there  shall 
be  no  difference  between  rich  and  poor,  between  high  and 
low,  when  property  will  be  in  common,  even  wives  and  chil- 
dren.'" But  forever  I  ask  of  such,  what  then?  The  der- 
veeshes in  the  deserts  of  Bokhara  and  the  reformers  in  Marl- 
boro' Chapel  sing  the  same  song.  "There's  a  good  time 
coming,  boys,"  but,  asked  one  of  the  audience  in  good 
faith,  "Can  you  fix  the  date?"  Said  I,  "Will  you  help  it 
along?" 

The  nonchalance  and  dolce-far-niente  air  of  nature  and 
society  hint  at  infinite  periods  in  the  progress  of  mankind. 
The  States  have  leisure  to  laugh  from  Maine  to  Texas  at 
some  newspaper  joke,  and  New  England  shakes  at  the  double- 
entendres  of  Australian  circles,  while  the  poor  reformer  cannot 
get  a  hearing. 

Men  do  not  fail  commonly  for  want  of  knowledge,  but  for 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  93 

free  members  in  its  scaly  folds ;  for  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten, 
that  while  the  law  holds  fast  the  thief  and  murderer,  it  lets 
itself  go  loose.  When  I  have  not  paid  the  tax  which  the 
State  demanded  for  that  protection  which  I  did  not  want, 
itself  has  robbed  me;  when  I  have  asserted  the  liberty  it 
presumed  to  declare,  itself  has  imprisoned  me.  Poor  crea- 
ture !  if  it  knows  no  better  I  will  not  blame  it.  If  it  cannot 
live  but  by  these  means,  I  can.  I  do  not  wish,  it  happens, 
to  be  associated  with  Massachusetts,  either  in  holding  slaves 
or  in  conquering  Mexico.  I  am  a  little  better  than  herself 
in  these  respects.  —  As  for  Massachusetts,  that  huge  she 
Briareus,  Argus,  and  Colchian  Dragon  conjoined,  set  to 
watch  the  Heifer  of  the  Constitution  and  the  Golden  Fleece, 
we  would  not  warrant  our  respect  for  her,  like  some  com- 
positions, to  preserve  its  qualities  through  all  weathers.  — 
Thus  it  has  happened,  that  not  the  Arch  Fiend  himself  has 
been  in  my  way,  but  these  toils  which  tradition  says  were 
originally  spun  to  obstruct  him.  They  are  cobwebs  and 
trifling  obstacles  in  an  earnest  man's  path,  it  is  true,  and  at 
length  one  even  becomes  attached  to  his  unswept  and  un- 
dusted  garret.  I  love  man  —  kind,  but  I  hate  the  institutions 
of  the  dead  unkind.  Men  execute  nothing  so  faithfully  as 
the  wills  of  the  dead,  to  the  last  codicil  and  letter.  They  rule 
this  world,  and  the  living  are  but  their  executors.  Such 
foundations  too  have  our  lectures  and  our  sermons  com- 
monly. They  are  all  Dudleian;  and  piety  derives  its  origin 
still  from  that  exploit  of  pius  Mneas,  who  bore  his  father, 
Anchises,  on  his  shoulders  from  the  ruins  of  Troy.  Or  rather, 
like  some  Indian  tribes,  we  bear  about  with  us  the  mouldering 
relics  of  our  ancestors  on  our  shoulders.  If,  for  instance,  a 
man  asserts  the  value  of  individual  liberty  over  the  merely 
political  commonweal,  his  neighbor  still  tolerates  him,  that 
is  he  who  is  living  near  him,  sometimes  even  sustains  him, 
but  never  the  State.  Its  officer,  as  a  living  man,  may  have 
human  virtues  and  a  thought  in  his  brain,  but  as  the  tool  of 
an  institution,  a  jailer  or  constable  it  may  be,  he  is  not  a  whit 
superior  to  his  prison  key  or  his  staff.  Herein  is  the  tragedy ; 
that  men  doing  outrage  to  their  proper  natures,  even  those 
called  wise  and  good,  lend  themselves  to  perform  the  office 
of  inferior  and  brutal  ones.  Hence  come  war  and  slavery 
in ;  and  what  else  may  not  come  in  by  this  opening?  But 
certainly  there  are  modes  by  which  a  man  may  put  bread 


94  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

into  his  mouth  which  will  not  prejudice  him  as  a  companion 
and  neighbor. 

"  Now  turn  again,  turn  again,  said  the  pinder, 
For  a  wrong  way  you  have  gone, 
For  you  have  forsaken  the  king's  highway, 
And  made  a  path  over  the  corn." 

Undoubtedly,  countless  reforms  are  called  for,  because 
society  is  not  animated,  or  instinct  enough  with  life,  but  in 
the  condition  of  some  snakes  which  I  have  seen  in  early 
spring,  with  alternate  portions  of  their  bodies  torpid  and 
flexible,  so  that  they  could  wriggle  neither  way.  All  men 
are  partially  buried  in  the  grave  of  custom,  and  of  some  we 
see  only  the  crown  of  the  head  above  ground.  Better  are 
the  physically  dead,  for  they  more  lively  rot.  Even  virtue 
is  no  longer  such  if  it  be  stagnant.  A  man's  life  should  be 
constantly  as  fresh  as  this  river.  It  should  be  the  same 
channel,  but  a  new  water  every  instant.  — 

"Virtues  as  rivers  pass, 

But  still  remains  that  virtuous  man  there  was." 

Most  men  have  no  inclination,  no  rapids,  no  cascades,  but 
marshes,  and  alligators,  and  miasma  instead.  We  read  that 
when  in  the  expedition  of  Alexander,  Onesicritus  was  sent 
forward  to  meet  certain  of  the  Indian  sect  of  Gymnosophists, 
and  he  had  told  them  of  those  new  philosophers  of  the  west, 
Pythagoras,  Socrates,  and  Diogenes,  and  their  doctrines,  one 
of  them  named  Dandamis  answered,  that  "They  appeared  to 
him  to  have  been  men  of  genius,  but  to  have  lived  with  too 
passive  a  regard  for  the  laws."  The  philosophers  of  the  west 
are  liable  to  this  rebuke  still.  "They  say  that  Lieou-hia- 
hoei,  and  Chao-lien  did  not  sustain  to  the  end  their  resolu- 
tions, and  that  they  dishonored  their  character.  Their 
language  was  in  harmony  with  reason  and  justice;  while 
their  acts  were  in  harmony  with  the  sentiments  of  men." 

Chateaubriand  said,  "There  are  two  things  which  grow 
stronger  in  the  breast  of  man,  in  proportion  as  he  advances 
in  years;  the  love  of  country  and  religion.  Let  them  be 
never  so  much  forgotten  in  youth,  they  sooner  or  later 
present  themselves  to  us  arrayed  in  all  their  charms,  and 
excite  in  the  recesses  of  our  hearts,  an  attachment  justly  due 
to  their  beauty."    It  may  be  so.    But  even  this  infirmity  of 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  95 

noble  minds  marks  the.  gradual  decay  of  youthful  hope  and 
faith.  It  is  the  allowed  infidelity  of  age.  There  is  a  saying 
of  the  Woloffs,  "He  who  was  born  first  has  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  old  clothes,"  consequently  M.  Chateaubriand  has 
more  old  clothes  than  I  have.  It  is  comparatively  a  faint 
and  reflected  beauty  that  is  admired,  not  an  essential  and 
intrinsic  one.  It  is  because  the  old  are  weak,  feel  their 
mortality,  and  think  that  they  have  measured  the  strength 
of  man.  They  will  not  boast ;  they  will  be  frank  and  humble. 
Well,  let  them  have  the  few  poor  comforts  they  can  keep. 
Humility  is  still  a  very  human  virtue.  They  look  back  on 
life,  and  so  see  not  into  the  future.  The  prospect  of  the 
young  is  forward  and  unbounded,  mingling  the  future  with 
the  present.  In  the  declining  day  the  thoughts  make  haste 
to  rest  in  darkness,  and  hardly  look  forward  to  the  ensuing 
morning.  The  thoughts  of  the  old  prepare  for  night  and 
slumber.  The  same  hopes  and  prospects  are  not  for  him 
who  stands  upon  the  rosy  mountain-tops  of  life,  and  him  who 
expects  the  setting  of  his  earthly  day. 

I  must  conclude  that  Conscience,  if  that  be  the  name  of  it, 
was  not  given  us  for  no  purpose,  or  for  a  hindrance.  However 
flattering  order  and  experience  may  look,  it  is  but  the  repose 
of  a  lethargy,  and  we  will  choose  rather  to  be  awake,  though 
it  be  stormy,  and  maintain  ourselves  on  this  earth  and  in 
this  life,  as  we  may,  without  signing  our  death-warrant. 
Let  us  see  if  we  cannot  stay  here  where  He  has  put  us,  on  his 
own  conditions.  Does  not  his  law  reach  as  far  as  his  light? 
The  expedients  of  the  nations  clash  with  one  another,  only 
the  absolutely  right  is  expedient  for  all. 

There  are  some  passages  in  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles,  well 
known  to  scholars,  of  which  I  am  reminded  in  this  connection. 
Antigone  has  resolved  to  sprinkle  sand  on  the  dead  body  of 
her  brother,  Polynices,  notwithstanding  the  edict  of  King 
Creon  condemning  to  death  that  one  who  should  perform  this 
service,  which  the  Greeks  deemed  so  important,  for  the 
enemy  of  his  country;  but  Ismene,  who  is  of  a  less  resolute 
and  noble  spirit,  declines  taking  part  with  her  sister  in  this 
work,  and  says,  — 

"I,  therefore,  asking  those  under  the  earth  to  consider  me, 
that  I  am  compelled  to  do  thus,  will  obey  those  who  are 
placed  in  office ;  for  to  do  extreme  things  is  not  wise." 


96  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Antigone.  "I  would  not  ask  you,  nor  would  you,  if  you 
still  wished,  do  it  joyfully  with  me.  Be  such  as  seems  good 
to  you.  But  I  will  bury  him.  It  is  glorious  for  me  doing  this 
to  die.  I  beloved  will  lie  with  him  beloved,  having,  like  a 
criminal,  done  what  is  holy ;  since  the  time  is  longer  in  which  it 
is  necessary  for  me  to  please  those  below,  than  those  here,  for 
there  I  shall  always  lie.  But  if  it  seems  good  to  you,  hold  in 
dishonor  things  which  are  honored  by  the  gods." 

Ismene.  "I  indeed  do  not  hold  them  in  dishonor;  but  to 
act  in  opposition  to  the  citizens  I  am  by  nature  unable." 

Antigone  being  at  length  brought  before  King  Creon,  he  asks, 
"Did  you  then  dare  to  transgress  these  laws?" 
Antigone.  "For  it  was  not  Zeus  who  proclaimed  these  to 
me,  nor  Justice  who  dwells  with  the  gods  below ;  it  was  not 
they  who  established  these  laws  among  men.  Nor  did  I  think 
that  your  proclamations  were  so  strong,  as,  being  a  mortal,  to 
be  able  to  transcend  the  unwritten  and  immovable  laws  of  the 
gods.  For  not  something  now  and  yesterday,  but  forever 
these  live,  and  no  one  knows  from  what  time  they  appeared. 
I  was  not  about  to  pay  the  penalty  of  violating  these  to  the 
gods,  fearing  the  presumption  of  any  man.  For  I  well  know 
that  I  should  die,  and  why  not?  even  if  you  had  not  pro- 
claimed it." 

This  was  concerning  the  burial  of  a  dead  body. 

The  wisest  conservatism  is  that  of  the  Hindoos.  "Im- 
memorial custom  is  transcendent  law,"  says  Menu.  That 
is,  it  was  the  custom  of  the  gods  before  men  used  it.  The 
fault  of  our  New  England  custom  is  that  it  is  memorial. 
What  is  morality  but  immemorial  custom?  Conscience  is 
the  chief  of  conservatives.  "Perform  the  settled  functions," 
says  Kreeshna  in  the  Bhagvat-Geeta ;  "action  is  preferable 
to  inaction.  The  journey  of  thy  mortal  frame  may  not 
succeed  from  inaction."  —  "A  man's  own  calling,  with  all 
its  faults,  ought  not  to  be  forsaken.  Every  undertaking  is 
involved  in  its  faults  as  the  fire  in  its  smoke."  —  "The  man 
who  is  acquainted  with  the  whole,  should  not  drive  those 
from  their  works  who  are  slow  of  comprehension,  and  less 
experienced  than  himself."  —  "Wherefore,  0  Arjoon,  resolve 
to  fight,"  —  is  the  advice  of  the  God  to  the  irresolute  soldier 
who  fears  to  slay  his  best  friends.    It  is  a  sublime  conserva- 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  97 

tism ;  as  wide  as  the  world,  and  as  unwearied  as  time ;  pre- 
serving the  universe  with  Asiatic  anxiety,  in  that  state  in 
which  it  appeared  to  their  minds.  These  philosophers  dwell 
on  the  inevitability  and  unchangeableness  of  laws,  on  the 
power  of  temperament  and  constitution,  the  three  goon  or 
qualities,  and  the  circumstances  of  birth  and  affinity.  The 
end  is  an  immense  consolation ;  eternal  absorption  in  Brahma. 
Their  speculations  never  venture  beyond  their  own  table 
lands,  though  they  are  high  and  vast  as  they.  Buoyancy, 
freedom,  flexibility,  variety,  possibility,  which  also  are 
qualities  of  the  Unnamed,  they  deal  not  with.  (  The  un- 
deserved reward  is  to  be  earned  by  an  everlasting  moral 
drudgery;  the  incalculable  promise  of  the  morrow  is,  as  it 
were,  weighed.  And  who  will  say  that  their  conservatism 
has  not  been  effectual.  "Assuredly,"  says  a  French  trans- 
lator, speaking  of  the  antiquity  and  durability  of  the  Chinese 
and  Indian  nations,  and  of  the  wisdom  of  their  legislators, 
"there  are  there  some  vestiges  of  the  eternal  laws  which  govern 
the  world." 

Christianity,  on  the  other  hand,  is  humane,  practical, 
and,  in  a  large  sense,  radical.  So  many  years  and  ages  of 
the  gods  those  eastern  sages  sat  contemplating  Brahm, 
uttering  in  silence  the  mystic  "Om,"  being  absorbed  into 
the  essence  of  the  Supreme  Being,  never  going  out  of  them- 
selves, but  subsiding  further  and  deeper  within ;  so  infinitely 
wise,  yet  infinitely  stagnant;  until,  at  last,  in  that  same 
Asia,  but  in  the  western  part  of  it,  appeared  a  youth,  wholly 
unforetold  by  them,  —  not  being  absorbed  into  Brahm,  but 
bringing  Brahm  down  to  earth  and  to  mankind ;  in  whom 
Brahm  had  awaked  from  his  long  sleep,  and  exerted  himself, 
and  the  day  began,  —  a  new  avatar.  The  Brahman  had 
never  thought  to  be  a  brother  of  mankind  as  well  as  a  child 
of  God.  Christ  is  the  prince  of  Reformers  and  Radicals. 
Many  expressions  in  the  New  Testament  come  naturally  to 
the  lips  of  all  protestants,  and  it  furnishes  the  most  pregnant 
and  practical  text.  There  is  no  harmless  dreaming,  no 
wise  speculation  in  it,  but  everywhere  a  substratum  of  good 
sense.  It  never  reflects,  but  it  repents.  There  is  no  poetry 
in  it,  we  may  say,  nothing  regarded  in  the  light  of  pure  beauty, 
but  moral  truth  is  its  object.  All  mortals  are  convicted  by 
its  conscience. 

The  New  Testament  is  remarkable  for  its  pure  morality; 


98  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

the  best  of  the  Hindoo  Scripture,  for  its  pure  intellectuality. 
The  reader  is  nowhere  raised  into  and  sustained  in  a  higher, 
purer,  or  rarer  region  of  thought  than  in  the  Bhagvat-Geeta. 
Warren  Hastings,  in  his  sensible  letter  recommending  the 
translation  of  this  book  to  the  Chairman  of  the  East  India 
Company,  declares  the  original  to  be  "of  a  sublimity  of  con- 
ception, reasoning,  and  diction,  almost  unequalled/'  and 
that  the  writings  of  the  Indian  philosophers  "will  survive 
when  the  British  dominion  in  India  shall  have  long  ceased 
to  exist,  and  when  the  sources  which  it  once  yielded  to  wealth 
and  power  are  lost  to  remembrance."  It  is  unquestionably 
one  of  the  noblest  and  most  sacred  scriptures  that  have  come 
down  to  us.  Books  are  to  be  distinguished  by  the  grandeur 
of  their  topics,  even  more  than  by  the  manner  in  which  they 
are  treated.  The  oriental  philosophy  approaches,  easily, 
loftier  themes  than  the  modern  aspires  to ;  and  no  wonder  if 
it  sometimes  prattle  about  them.  It  only  assigns  their  due 
rank  respectively  to  Action  and  Contemplation,  or  rather 
does  full  justice  to  the  latter.  Western  philosophers  have 
not  conceived  of  the  significance  of  Contemplation  in  their 
sense.  Speaking  of  the  spiritual  discipline  to  which  the 
Brahmans  subjected  themselves,  and  the  wonderful  power 
of  abstraction  to  which  they  attained,  instances  of  which 
had  come  under  his  notice,  Hastings  says :  — 

"To  those  who  have  never  been  accustomed  to  the  separa- 
tion of  the  mind  from  the  notices  of  the  senses,  it  may  not 
be  easy  to  conceive  by  what  means  such  a  power  is  to  be 
attained;  since  even  the  most  studious  men  of  our  hemi- 
sphere will  find  it  difficult  so  to  restrain  their  attention,  but 
that  it  will  wander  to  some  object  of  present  sense  or  recollec- 
tion ;  and  even  the  buzzing  of  a  fly  will  sometimes  have  the 
power  to  disturb  it.  But  if  we  are  told  that  there  have  been 
men  who  were  successively,  for  ages  past,  in  the  daily  habit 
of  abstracted  contemplation,  begun  in  the  earliest  period  of 
youth,  and  continued  in  many  to  the  maturity  of  age,  each 
adding  some  portion  of  knowledge  to  the  store  accumulated 
by  his  predecessors ;  it  is  not  assuming  too  much  to  conclude, 
that  as  the  mind  ever  gathers  strength,  like  the  body,  by 
exercise,  so  in  such  an  exercise  it  may  in  each  have  acquired 
the  faculty  to  which  they  aspired,  and  that  their  collective 
studies  may  have  led  them  to  the  discovery  of  new  tracks  and 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  99 

combinations  of  sentiment,  totally  different  from  the  doc- 
trines with  which  the  learned  of  other  nations  are  acquainted ; 
doctrines  which,  however  speculative  and  subtle,  still,  as 
they  possess  the  advantage  of  being  derived  from  a  source  so 
free  from  every  adventitious  mixture,  may  be  equally  founded 
in  truth  with  the  most  simple  of  our  own." 

"The  forsaking  of  works"  was  taught  by  Kreeshna  to 
the  most  ancient  of  men,  and  handed  down  from  one  to 
another,  "  until  at  length,  in  the  course  of  time  the  mighty 
art  was  lost." 

"In  wisdom  is  to  be  found  every  work  without  exception," 
says  Kreeshna. 

"Although  thou  wert  the  greatest  of  all  offenders,  thou 
shalt  be  able  to  cross  the  gulf  of  sin  with  the  bark  of  wisdom." 

"There  is  not  anything  in  this  world  to  be  compared  with 
wisdom  for  purity." 

"The  action  stands  at  a  distance  inferior  to  the  application 
of  wisdom." 

The  wisdom  of  a  Moonee  "is  confirmed,  when,  like  the 
tortoise,  he  can  draw  in  all  his  members,  and  restrain  them 
from  their  wonted  purposes." 

"Children  only,  and  not  the  learned,  speak  of  the  specula- 
tive and  the  practical  doctrines  as  two.  They  are  but  one. 
For  both  obtain  the  self-same  end,  and  the  place  which  is 
gained  by  the  followers  of  the  one,  is  gained  by  the  followers 
of  the  other." 

"The  man  enjoyeth  not  freedom  from  action,  from  the 
non-commencement  of  that  which  he  hath  to  do ;  nor  doth 
he  obtain  happiness  from  a  total  inactivity.  No  one  ever 
resteth  a  moment  inactive.  Every  man  is  involuntarily 
urged  to  act  by  those  principles  which  are  inherent  in  his 
nature.  The  man  who  restraineth  his  active  faculties,  and 
sitteth  down  with  bis  mind  attentive  to  the  objects  of  his 
senses,  is  called  one  of  an  astrayed  soul,  and  the  practiser  of 
deceit.  So  the  man  is  praised,  who,  having  subdued  all  his 
passions,  performeth  with  his  active  faculties  all  the  functions 
of  life,  unconcerned  about  the  event." 

"Let  the  motive  be  in  the  deed  and  not  in  the  event.  Be 
not  one  whose  motive  for  action  is  the  hope  of  reward.  Let 
not  thy  life  be  spent  in  inaction." 

"For  the  man  who  doeth  that  which  he  hath  to  do,  without 
affection,  obtaineth  the  Supreme." 


100  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

"He  who  may  behold,  as  it  were  inaction  in  action,  and 
action  in  inaction,  is  wise  amongst  mankind.  He  is  a  per- 
fect performer  of  all  duty." 

"Wise  men  call  him  a  Pandeet,  whose  every  undertaking 
is  free  from  the  idea  of  desire,  and  whose  actions  are  consumed 
by  the  fire  of  wisdom.  He  abandoneth  the  desire  of  a  reward 
of  his  actions;  he  is  always  contented  and  independent; 
and  although  he  may  be  engaged  in  a  work,  he,  as  it  were, 
doeth  nothing." 

"He  is  both  a  Yogee  and  a  Sannyasee  who  performeth 
that  which  he  hath  to  do  independent  of  the  fruit  thereof; 
not  he  who  livetb  without  the  sacrificial  fire  and  without 
action." 

"He  who  enjoyeth  but  the  Amreeta  which  is  left  of  his 
offerings,  obtaineth  the  eternal  spirit  of  Brahm,  the  Su- 
preme." 

What  after  all  does  the  practicalness  of  life  amount  to? 
The  things  immediate  to  be  done  are  very  trivial.  I  could 
postpone  them  all  to  hear  this  locust  sing.  The  most  glorious 
fact  in  our  experience  is  not  anything  that  we  have  done  or 
may  hope  to  do,  but  a  transient  thought,  or  vision,  or  dream, 
which  we  have  had.  I  would  give  all  the  wealth  of  the  world, 
and  all  the  deeds  of  all  the  heroes,  for  one  true  vision.  But 
how  can  I  communicate  with  the  gods  who  am  a  pencil-maker 
on  the  earth,  and  not  be  insane? 

"I  am  the  same  to  all  mankind,"  says  Kreeshna;  "There 
is  not  one  who  is  worthy  of  my  love  or  hatred." 

This  teaching  is  not  practical  in  the  sense  in  which  the 
New  Testament  is.  It  is  not  always  sound  sense  in  practice. 
The  Brahman  never  proposes  courageously  to  assault  evil, 
but  patiently  to  starve  it  out.  His  active  faculties  are 
paralyzed  by  the  idea  of  caste,  of  impassable  limits,  of  destiny, 
and  the  tyranny  of  time.  Kreeshna's  argument,  it  must  be 
allowed,  is  defective.  No  sufficient  reason  is  given  why 
Arjoon  should  fight.  Arjoon  may  be  convinced,  but  the 
reader  is  not,  for  his  judgment  is  not  "formed  upon  specula- 
tive doctrines  of  the  Sankhya  Sastra."  "Seek  an  asylum 
in  wisdom  alone,"  —  but  what  is  wisdom  to  a  western  mind? 
He  speaks  of  duty,  but  the  duty  of  which  he  speaks,  is  it  not 
an  arbitrary  one?    When  was  it  established?    The  Bran- 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  101 

man's  virtue  consists  not  in  doing  right,  but  arbitrary  things. 
What  is  that  which  a  man/ '  hath  t  o  do  "  ?  What  is  ' '  action ' '  ? 
What  are  the  "settled  functions"?  What  is  "a  man's  own 
religion,"  which  is  so  much  better  than  another's?  What  is 
"a  man's  own  particular  calling"?  What  are  the  duties 
which  are  appointed  by  one's  birth?  It  is  in  fact  a  defence 
of  the  institution  of  caste,  of  what  is  called  the  "natural 
duty"  of  the  Kshetree,  or  soldier,  "to  attach  himself  to  the 
discipline,"  "not  to  flee  from  the  field,"  and  the  like.  But 
they  who  are  unconcerned  about  the  consequences  of  their 
actions,  are  not  therefore  unconcerned  about  their  actions. 
—  Yet  we  know  not  where  we  should  look  for  a  loftier  specula- 
tive faith. 

Behold  the  difference  between  the  oriental  and  the  occi- 
dental. The  former  has  nothing  to  do  in  this  world;  the 
latter  is  full  of  activity.  The  one  looks  in  the  sun  till  his  eyes 
are  put  out;  the  other  follows  him  prone  in  his  westward 
course.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  caste,  even  in  the  West ; 
but  it  is  comparatively  faint.  It  is  conservatism  here.  It 
says  forsake  not  your  calling,  outrage  no  institution,  use  no 
violence,  rend  no  bonds.  The  State  is  thy  parent.  Its 
virtue  or  manhood  is  wholly  filial.  There  is  a  struggle  be- 
tween the  oriental  and  occidental  in  every  nation ;  some  who 
would  be  forever  contemplating  the  sun,  and  some  who  are 
hastening  toward  the  sunset.  The  former  class  says  to  the 
latter,  When  you  have  reached  the  sunset,  you  will  be  no 
nearer  to  the  sun.  To  which  the  latter  replies,  But  we  so 
prolong  the  day.  The  former  "walketh  but  in  that  night, 
when  all  things  go  to  rest,  the  night  of  time.  The  contem- 
plative Moonee  sleepeth  but  in  the  day  of  time  when  all 
things  wake." 

To  conclude  these  extracts,  I  can  say,  in  the  words  of 
Sanjay,  "As,  0  mighty  Prince!  I  recollect  again  and  again 
this  holy  and  wonderful  dialogue  of  Kreeshna  and  Arjoon, 
I  continue  more  and  more  to  rejoice ;  and  as  I  recall  to  my 
memory  the  more  than  miraculous  form  of  Haree,  my  as- 
tonishment is  great,  and  I  marvel  and  rejoice  again  and 
again!  Wherever  Kreeshna  the  God  of  devotion  may  be, 
wherever  Arjoon  the  mighty  bowman  may  be,  there  too, 
without  doubt,  are  fortune,  riches,  victory,  and  good  conduct. 
This  is  my  firm  belief." 

I  would  say  to  the  readers  of  Scriptures,  if  they  wish  for 


102  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

a  good  book  "to  read,  read  the  Bhagvat-Geeta,  an  episode  to 
the  Mahabharat,  said  to  have  been  written  by  Kreeshna  Dwy- 

payen  Veias,  —  known  to  have  been  written  by ,  more 

than  four  thousand  years  ago,  —  it  matters  not  whether 
three  or  four,  or  when,  —  translated  by  Charles  Wilkins. 
It  deserves  to  be  read  with  reverence  even  by  Yankees,  as  a 
part  of  the  sacred  writings  of  a  devout  people ;  and  the  intelli- 
gent Hebrew  will  rejoice  to  find  in  it  a  moral  grandeur  and 
sublimity  akin  to  those  of  his  own  Scriptures. 

To  an  American  reader,  who,  by  the  advantage  of  his 
position,  can  see  over  that  strip  of  Atlantic  coast  to  Asia 
and  the  Pacific,  who,  as  it  were,  sees  the  shore  slope  upward 
over  the  Alps  to  the  Himmaleh  mountains,  the  comparatively 
recent  literature  of  Europe  often  appears  partial  and  clannish, 
and,  notwithstanding  the  limited  range  of  his  own  sym- 
pathies and  studies,  the  European  writer  who  presumes  that 
he  is  speaking  for  the  world,  is  perceived  by  him  to  speak 
only  for  that  corner  of  it  which  he  inhabits.  One  of  the 
rarest  of  England's  scholars  and  critics,  in  his  classification 
of  the  worthies  of  the  world,  betrays  the  narrowness  of  his 
European  culture  and  the  exclusiveness  of  his  reading.  None 
of  her  children  has  done  justice  to  the  poets  and  philosophers 
of  Persia  or  of  India.  They  have  been  better  known  to  her 
merchant  scholars  than  to  her  poets  and  thinkers  by  pro- 
fession. You  may  look  in  vain  through  English  poetry  for 
a  single  memorable  verse  inspired  by  these  themes.  Nor  is 
Germany  to  be  excepted,  though  her  philological  industry 
is  indirectly  serving  the  cause  of  philosophy  and  poetry. 
Even  Goethe,  one  would  say,  wanted  that  universality  of 
genius  which  could  have  appreciated  the  philosophy  of  India, 
if  he  had  more  nearly  approached  it.  His  genius  was  more 
practical,  dwelling  much  more  in  the  regions  of  the  under- 
standing, and  less  native  to  contemplation,  than  the  genius 
of  those  sages.  It  is  remarkable  that  Homer  and  a  few  He- 
brews are  the  most  oriental  names  which  modern  Europe, 
whose  literature  has  taken  its  rise  since  the  decline  of  the 
Persian,  has  admitted  into  her  list  of  Worthies,  and  perhaps 
the  worthiest  of  mankind,  and  the  fathers  of  modern  thinking, 
—  for  the  contemplations  of  those  Indian  sages  have  influ- 
enced the  intellectual  development  of  mankind,  —  whose 
works  even  yet  survive  in  wonderful  completeness,  are,  for 
the  most  part,  not  recognized  as  ever  having  existed.    If 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  103 

the  lions  had  been  the  painters  it  would  have  been  otherwise. 
In  every  one's  youthful  dTeams  philosophy  is  still  vaguely 
but  inseparably,  and  with  singular  truth,  associated  with  the 
East,  nor  do  after  years  discover  its  local  habitation  in  the 
Western  world.  In  comparison  with  the  philosophers  of  the 
East  we  may  say  that  modern  Europe  has  yet  given  birth  to 
none.  Beside  the  vast  and  cosmogonal  philosophy  of  the 
Bhagvat-Geeta,  even  our  Shakespeare  seems  sometimes 
youthfully  green  and  practical  merely.  Some  of  these  sub- 
lime sentences,  as  the  Chaldsean  oracles  of  Zoroaster,  for 
instance,  still  surviving  after  a  thousand  revolutions  and  trans- 
lations, make  us  doubt  if  the  poetic  form  and  dress  are  not 
transitory,  and  not  essential  to  the  most  effective  and  endur- 
ing expression  of  thought.  Ex  oriente  lux  may  still  be  the 
motto  of  scholars,  for  the  Western  world  has  not  yet  derived 
from  the  East  all  the  light  which  it  is  destined  to  receive 
thence. 

It  would  be  worthy  of  the  age  to  print  together  the  col- 
lected Scriptures  of  Sacred  Writings  of  the  several  nations, 
the  Chinese,  the  Hindoos,  the  Persians,  the  Hebrews,  and 
others,  as  the  Scripture  of  mankind.  The  New  Testament 
is  still,  perhaps,  too  much  on  the  lips  and  in  the  hearts  of  men 
to  be  called  a  Scripture  in  this  sense.  Such  a  juxtaposition 
and  comparison  might  help  to  liberalize  the  faith  of  men. 
This  is  a  work  which  Time  will  surely  edit,  reserved  to  crown 
the  labors  of  the  printing  press.  This  would  be  the  Bible, 
or  Book  of  Books,  which  let  the  missionaries  carry  to  the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 

While  engaged  in  these  reflections,  thinking  ourselves  the 
only  navigators  of  these  waters,  suddenly  a  canal  boat,  with 
its  sail  set,  glided  round  a  point  before  us,  like  some  huge 
river  beast,  and  changed  the  scene  in  an  instant ;  and  then 
another  and  another  glided  into  sight,  and  we  found  ourselves 
in  the  current  of  commerce  once  more.  So  we  threw  our 
rinds  into  the  water  for  the  fishes  to  nibble,  and  added  our 
breath  to  the  life  of  living  men.  Little  did  we  think  in  the 
distant  garden  in  which  we  had  planted  the  seed  and  reared 
this  fruit,  where  it  would  be  eaten.  Our  melons  lay  at  home 
on  the  sandy  bottom  of  the  Merrimack,  and  our  potatoes 
in  the  sun  and  water  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  looked  like 
a  fruit  of  the  country.    Soon,  however,  we  were  delivered 


104  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

from  this  fleet  of  junks,  and  possessed  the  river  in  solitude, 
rowing  steadily  upward  through  the  noon,  between  the 
territories  of  Nashua  on  the  one  hand,  and  Hudson,  once 
Nottingham,  on  the  other ;  from  time  to  time  scaring  up  a 
king-fisher  or  a  summer  duck,  the  former  flying  rather  by 
vigorous  impulses,  than  by  steady  and  patient  steering  with 
that  short  rudder  of  his,  sounding  his  rattle  along  the  fluvial 
street. 

Ere  long  another  scow  hove  in  sight,  creeping  down  the 
river,  and  hailing  it,  we  attached  ourselves  to  its  side,  and 
floated  back  in  company,  chatting  with  the  boatmen,  and 
obtaining  a  draught  of  cooler  water  from  their  jug.  They 
appeared  to  be  green  hands  from  far  among  the  hills,  who 
had  taken  this  means  to  get  to  the  seaboard,  and  see  the 
world ;  and  would  possibly  visit  the  Falkland  Isles,  and  the 
China  seas,  before  they  again  saw  the  waters  of  the  Merri- 
mack, or  perchance,  not  return  this  way  forever.  They 
had  already  embarked  the  private  interests  of  the  landsman 
in  the  larger  venture  of  the  race,  and  were  ready  to  mess  with 
mankind,  reserving  only  the  till  of  a  chest  to  themselves. 
But  they  too  were  soon  lost  behind  a  point,  and  we  went 
croaking  on  our  way  alone.  What  grievance  has  its  root 
among  the  New  Hampshire  hills?  we  asked;  what  is  want- 
ing to  human  life  here,  that  these  men  should  make  such  haste 
to  the  antipodes?  We  prayed  that  their  bright  anticipations 
might  not  be  rudely  disappointed. 

Though  all  the  fates  should  prove  unkind, 
Leave  not  your  native  land  behind. 
The  ship,  becalmed,  at  length  stands  still ; 
The  steed  must  rest  beneath  the  hill ; 
But  swiftly  still  our  fortunes  pace, 
To  find  us  out  in  every  place. 

The  vessel,  though  her  masts  be  firm, 
Beneath  her  copper  bears  a  worm ; 
Around  the  cape,  across  the  line, 
Till  fields  of  ice  her  course  confine  ; 
It  matters  not  how  smooth  the  breeze, 
How  shallow  or  how  deep  the  seas, 
Whether  she  bears  Manilla  twine, 
Or  in  her  hold  Madeira  wine, 
Or  China  teas,  or  Spanish  hides, 
In  port  or  quarantine  she  rides ; 


We 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  105 

Far  from  New  England's  blustering  shore, 
New  England's  worm  her  hulk  shall  bore, 
And  sink  her  in  the  Indian  seas, 
Twine,  wine,  and  hides,  and  China  teas. 

passed  a  small  desert  here  on  the  east  bank,  between 
Tyngsboro'  and  Hudson,  which  was  interesting  and  even 
refreshing  to  our  eyes  in  the  midst  of  the  almost  universal 
greenness.  This  sand  was  indeed  somewhat  impressive  and 
beautiful  to  us.  A  very  old  inhabitant,  who  was  at  work  in 
a  field  on  the  Nashua  side,  told  us  that  he  remembered  when 
corn  and  grain  grew  there,  and  it  was  a  cultivated  field.  But 
at  length  the  fishermen,  for  this  was  a  fishing  place,  pulled 
up  the  bushes  on  the  shore,  for  greater  convenience  in  hauling 
their  seines,  and  when  the  bank  was  thus  broken,  the  wind 
began  to  blow  up  the  sand  from  the  shore,  until  at  length 
it  had  covered  about  fifteen  acres  several  feet  deep.  We 
saw  near  the  river,  where  the  sand  was  blown  off  down  to 
some  ancient  surface,  the  foundation  of  an  Indian  wigwam 
exposed,  a  perfect  circle  of  burnt  stones  four  or  five  feet  in 
diameter,  mingled  with  fine  charcoal  and  the  bones  of  small 
animals,  which  had  been  preserved  in  the  sand.  The  sur- 
rounding sand  was  sprinkled  with  other  burnt  stones  on  which 
their  fires  had  been  built,  as  well  as  with  flakes  of  arrow- 
head stone,  and  we  found  one  perfect  arrow-head.  In  one 
place  we  noticed  where  an  Indian  had  sat  to  manufacture 
arrow-heads  out  of  quartz,  and  the  sand  was  sprinkled  with 
a  quart  of  small  glass-like  chips  about  as  big  as  a  fourpence, 
which  he  had  broken  off  in  his  work.  Here,  then,  the  Indians 
must  have  fished  before  the  whites  arrived.  There  was 
another  similar  sandy  tract  about  half  a  mile  above  this. 

Still  the  noon  prevailed,  and  we  turned  the  prow  aside 
to  bathe,  and  recline  ourselves  under  some  buttonwoods 
by  a  ledge  of  rocks,  in  a  retired  pasture,  sloping  to  the  water's 
edge,  and  skirted  with  pines  and  hazels,  in  the  town  of  Hud- 
son. Still  had  India,  and  that  old  noontide  philosophy,  the 
better  part  of  our  thoughts. 

It  is  always  singular,  but  encouraging,  to  meet  with  com- 
mon sense  in  very  old  books,  as  the  Heetopades  of  Veeshnoo 
Sarma;  a  playful  wisdom  which  has  eyes  behind  as  well  as 
before,  and  oversees  itself.  It  asserts  their  health  and 
independence  of  the  experience  of  later  times.    This  pledge 


106  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

of  sanity  cannot  be  spared  in  a  book,  that  it  sometimes  pleas- 
antly reflect  upon  itself.  The  story  and  fabulous  portion  of 
this  book  winds  loosely  from  sentence  to  sentence  as  so  many 
oases  in  a  desert,  and  is  as  indistinct  as  a  camel's  track  be- 
tween Mourzouk  and  Darfour.  It  is  a  comment  on  the  flow 
and  freshet  of  modern  books.  The  reader  leaps  from  sen- 
tence to  sentence,  as  from  one  stepping-stone  to  another, 
while  the  stream  of  the  story  rushes  past  unregarded.  The 
Bhagvat-Geeta  is  less  sententious  and  poetic,  perhaps,  but 
still  more  wonderfully  sustained  and  developed.  Its'  sanity 
and  sublimity  have  impressed  the  minds  even  of  soldiers 
and  merchants.  It  is  the  characteristic  of  great  poems  that 
they  will  yield  of  their  sense  in  due  proportion  to  the  hasty 
and  the  deliberate  reader.  To  the  practical  they  will  be  com- 
mon sense,  and  to  the  wise  wisdom :  as  either  the  traveller 
may  wet  his  lips,  or  an  army  may  fill  its  water  casks  at  a 
full  stream. 

One  of  the  most  attractive  of  those  ancient  books  that  I 
have  met  with  is  the  Laws  of  Menu.  According  to  Sir  Wil- 
liam Jones,  "Vyasa,  the  son  of  Parasara,  has  decided  that 
the  Veda,  with  its  Angas,  or  the  six  compositions  deduced 
from  it,  the  revealed  system  of  medicine,  the  Puranas,  or 
sacred  histories,  and  the  code  of  Menu,  were  four  works  of 
supreme  authority,  which  ought  never  to  be  shaken  by  argu- 
ments merely  human."  The  last  is  believed  by  the  Hin- 
doos "to  have  been  promulgated  in  the  beginning  of  time,  by 
Menu,  son  or  grandson  of  Brahma,"  and  "first  of  created 
beings";  and  Brahma  is  said  to  have  "taught  his  laws  to 
Menu  in  a  hundred  thousand  verses,  which  Menu  explained 
to  the  primitive  world  in  the  very  words  of  the  book  now 
translated. "  Others  affirm  that  they  have  undergone  suc- 
cessive abridgments  for  the  convenience  of  mortals,  "while 
the  gods  of  the  lower  heaven,  and  the  band  of  celestial  musi- 
cians, are  engaged  in  studying  the  primary  code."  —  "A 
number  of  glosses  or  comments  on  Menu  were  composed  by 
the  Munis,  or  old  philosophers,  whose  treatises,  together 
with  that  before  us,  constitute  the  Dherma  Sastra,  in  a 
collective  sense,  or  Body  of  Law."  Culluca  Bhatta  was 
one  of  the  more  modern  of  these. 

Every  sacredbook,  successively,  seems  to  have  been  ac- 
cepted in  the  faith  that  it  was  to  be  the  final  resting-place  of 
the  sojourning  soul;    but  after  all,  it  is  but  a  caravansary 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  107 

which  supplies  refreshment  to  the  traveller,  and  directs  him 
farther  on  his  way  to  Isphahan  or  Bagdat.  Thank  God, 
no  Hindoo  tyranny  prevailed  at  the  framing  of  the  world, 
but  we  are  freemen  of  the  universe,  and  not  sentenced  to  any 
caste. 

I  know  of  no  book  which  has  come  down  to  us  with  grander 
pretensions  than  this,  and  it  is  so  impersonal  and  sincere  that 
it  is  never  offensive  nor  ridiculous.  Compare  the  modes 
in  which  modern  literature  is  advertised  with  the  prospectus 
of  this  book,  and  think  what  a  reading  public  it  addresses, 
what  criticism  it  expects.  It  seems  to  have  been  uttered 
from  some  eastern  summit,  with  a  sober  morning  prescience 
in  the  dawn  of  time,  and  you  cannot  read  a  sentence  without 
being  elevated  as  upon  the  table-land  of  the  Ghauts.  It 
has  such  a  rhythm  as  the  winds  of  the  desert,  such  a  tide  as 
the  Ganges,  and  is  as  superior  to  criticism  as  the  Himmaleh 
mountains.  Its  tone  is  of  such  unrelaxed  fibre,  that  even 
at  this  late  day,  unworn  by  time,  it  wears  the  English  and 
the  Sanscrit  dress  indifferently,  and  its  fixed  sentences  keep 
up  their  distant  fires  still  like  the  stars,  by  whose  dissipated 
rays  this  lower  world  is  illumined.  The  whole  book  by  noble 
gestures  and  inclinations  seems  to  render  many  words  unneces- 
sary. English  sense  has  toiled,  but  Hindoo  wisdom  never 
perspired.  The  sentences  open,  as  we  read  them,  unex- 
pensively,  and,  at  first,  almost  unmeaningly,  as  the  petals 
of  a  flower,  yet  they  sometimes  startle  us  with  that  rare  kind 
of  wisdom  which  could  only  have  been  learned  from  the  most 
trivial  experience ;  but  it  comes  to  us  as  refined  as  the  porce- 
lain earth  which  subsides  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  They 
are  clean  and  dry  as  fossil  truths,  which  have  been  exposed 
to  the  elements  for  thousands  of  years,  so  impersonally  and 
scientifically  true  that  they  are  the  ornament  of  the  parlor 
and  the  cabinet.  Any  moral  philosophy  is  exceedingly  rare. 
This  of  Menu  addresses  our  privacy  more  than  most.  It  is  a 
more  private  and  familiar,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a  more 
public  and  universal  word  than  is  spoken  in  parlor  or  pulpit 
now-a-days.  As  our  domestic  fowls  are  said  to  have  their 
original  in  the  wild  pheasant  of  India,  so  our  domestic  thoughts 
have  their  prototypes  in  the  thoughts  of  her  philosophers. 
We  seem  to  be  dabbling  in  the  very  elements  of  our  present 
conventional  and  actual  life ;  as  if  it  were  the  primeval  con- 
venticle where  how  to  eat  and  to  drink  and  to  sleep,  and 


108  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

maintain  life  with  adequate  dignity  and  sincerity,  were  the 
questions  to  be  decided.  It  is  later  and  more  intimate  even 
than  the  advice  of  our  nearest  friends.  And  yet  it  is  true  for 
the  widest  horizon,  and  read  out  of  doors  has  relation  to  the 
dim  mountain  line,  and  is  native  and  aboriginal  there.  Most 
books  belong  to  the  house  and  street  only,  and  in  the  fields 
their  leaves  feel  very  thin.  They  are  bare  and  obvious,  and 
have  no  halo  nor  haze  about  them.  Nature  lies  far  and  fair 
behind  them  all.  But  this,  as  it  proceeds  from,  so  does  it 
address  what  is  deepest  and  most  abiding  in  man.  It  belongs 
to  the  noontide  of  the  day,  the  midsummer  of  the  year,  and 
after  the  snows  have  melted,  and  the  waters  evaporated  in 
the  spring,  still  its  truth  speaks  freshly  to  our  experience. 
It  helps  the  sun  to  shine,  and  his  rays  fall  on  its  page  to  illus- 
trate it.  It  spends  the  mornings  and  the  evenings,  and  makes 
such  an  impression  on  us  over  night  as  to  awaken  us  before 
dawn,  and  its  influence  lingers  around  us  like  a  fragrance 
late  into  the  day.  It  conveys  a  new  gloss  to  the  meadows 
and  the  depths  of  the  wood.  Its  spirit,  like  a  more  subtile 
ether,  sweeps  along  with  the  prevailing  winds  of  a  country, 
and  the  very  locusts  and  crickets  of  a  summer  day  are  but 
later  or  earlier  glosses  on  the  Dherma  Sastra  of  the  Hindoos, 
a  continuation  of  the  sacred  code.  As  we  have  said,  there 
is  an  orientalism  in  the  most  restless  pioneer,  and  the  farthest 
west  is  but  the  farthest  east.  This  fair  modern  world  is 
only  a  reprint  of  the  Laws  of  Menu  with  the  gloss  of  Culluca. 
Tried  by  a  New  England  eye,  or  the  mere  practical  wisdom 
of  modern  times,  they  are  the  oracles  of  a  race  already  in  its 
dotage,  but  held  up  to  the  sky,  which  is  the  only  impartial 
and  incorruptible  ordeal,  they  are  of  a  piece  with  its  depth 
and  serenity,  and  I  am  assured  that  they  will  have  a  place 
and  significance  as  long  as  there  is  a  sky  to  test  them  by. 

Give  me  a  sentence  which  no  intelligence  can  understand. 
There  must  be  a  kind  of  life  and  palpitation  to  it,  and  under 
its  words  a  kind  of  blood  must  circulate  forever.  It  is  won- 
derful that  this  sound  should  have  come  down  to  us  from  so 
far,  when  the  voice  of  man  can  be  heard  so  little  way,  and  we 
are  not  now  within  ear-shot  of  any  contemporary.  The 
woodcutters  have  here  felled  an  ancient  pine  forest,  and 
brought  to  light  to  these  distant  hills  a  fair  lake  in  the  south- 
west ;  and  now  in  an  instant  it  is  distinctly  shown  to  these 
woods  as  if  its  image  had  travelled  hither  from  eternity. 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  109 

Perhaps  these  old  stumps  upon  the  knoll  remember  when 
anciently  this  lake  gleamed  in  the  horizon.  One  wonders 
if  the  bare  earth  itself  did  not  experience  emotion  at  behold- 
ing again  so  fair  a  prospect.  That  fair  water  lies  there  in 
the  sun  thus  revealed,  so  much  the  prouder  and  fairer  because 
its  beauty  needed  not  to  be  seen.  It  seems  yet  lonely,  suffi- 
cient to  itself,  and  superior  to  observation. —  So  are  these 
old  sentences  like  serene  lakes  in  the  southwest,  at  length 
revealed  to  us,  which  have  so  long  been  reflecting  our  own 
sky  in  their  bosom. 

The  great  plain  of  India  lies  as  in  a  cup  between  the  Him- 
maleh  and  the  ocean  on  the  north  and  south,  and  the  Brah- 
mapootra and  Indus,  on  the  east  and  west,  wherein  the  pri- 
meval race  was  received.  We  will  not  dispute  the  story.  We 
are  pleased  to  read  in  the  natural  history  of  the  country,  of 
the  "pine,  larch,  spruce,  and  silver  fir,"  which  cover  the 
southern  face  of  the  Himmaleh  range;  pi  the  "gooseberry, 
raspberry,  strawberry,"  which  from  an  imminent  temperate 
zone  overlook  the  torrid  plains.  So  did  this  active  modern 
life  have  even  then  a  foothold  and  lurking  place  in  the  midst 
of  the  stateliness  and  contemplativeness  of  those  eastern 
plains.  In  another  era  the  "lily-of-the-valley,  cowslip, 
dandelion,"  were  to  work  their  way  down  into  the  plain,  and 
bloom  in  a  level  zone  of  their  own  reaching  round  the  earth. 
Already  has  the  era  of  the  temperate  zone  arrived,  the  era 
of  the  pine  and  the  oak,  for  the  palm  and  the  banian  do  not 
supply  the  wants  of  this  age.  The  lichens  on  the  summits 
of  the  rocks  will  perchance  find  their  level  ere  long. 

As  for  the  tenets  of  the  Brahmans,  we  are  not  so  much 
concerned  to  know  what  doctrines  they  held,  as  that  they  were 
held  by  any.  We  can  tolerate  all  philosophies,  Atomists, 
Pneumatologists,  Atheists,  Theists,  —  Plato,  Aristotle,  Leu- 
cippus,  Democritus,  Pythagoras,  Zoroaster,  and  Confucius. 
It  is  the  attitude  of  these  men,  more  than  any  communica- 
tion which  they  make,  that  attracts  us.  Between  these  and 
their  commentators,  it  is  true,  there  is  an  endless  dispute. 
But  if  it  comes  to  this  that  you  compare  notes,  then  you  are 
all  wrong.  As  it  is,  each  takes  us  up  into  the  serene  heavens, 
whither  the  smallest  bubble  rises  as  surely  as  the  largest, 
and  paints  earth  and  sky  for  us.  Any  sincere  thought  is 
irresistible.  The  very  austerity  of  the  Brahmans  is  tempting 
to  the  devotional  soul,  as  a  more  refined  and  nobler  luxury. 


110  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Wants  so  easily  and  gracefully  satisfied  seem  like  a  more 
refined  pleasure.  Their  conception  of  creation  is  peaceful 
as  a  dream.  "When  that  power  awakes,  then  has  this  world 
its  full  expansion;  but  when  he  slumbers  with  a  tranquil 
spirit,  then  the  whole  system  fades  away."  In  the  very 
indistinctness  of  their  theogony  a  sublime  truth  is  implied. 
It  hardly  allows  the  reader  to  rest  in  any  supreme  first  cause, 
but  directly  it  hints  at  a  supremer  still  which  created  the  last, 
and  the  Creator  is  still  behind  increate. 

Nor  will  we  disturb  the  antiquity  of  this  Scripture ;  "From 
fire,  from  air,  and  from  the  sun,"  it  was  "milked  out."  One 
might  as  well  investigate  the  chronology  of  light  and  heat. 
Let  the  sun  shine.  Menu  understood  this  matter  best,  when 
he  said,  "Those  best  know  the  divisions  of  days  and  nights 
who  understand  that  the  day  of  Brahma,  which  endures  to 
the  end  of  a  thousand  such  ages,  [infinite  ages,  nevertheless, 
according  to  mortal  reckoning],  gives  rise  to  virtuous  exer- 
tions; and  that  his  night  endures  as  long  as  his  day."  Indeed, 
the  Mussulman  and  Tartar  dynasties  are  beyond  all  dating. 
Me  thinks  I  have  lived  under  them  myself.  In  every  man's 
brain  is  the  Sanscrit.  The  Vedas  and  their  Angas  are  not 
so  ancient  as  serene  contemplation.  Why  will  we  be  imposed 
on  by  antiquity?  Is  the  babe  young?  When  I  behold  it, 
it  seems  more  venerable  than  the  oldest  man;  it  is  more 
ancient  than  Nestor  or  the  Sibyls,  and  bears  the  wrinkles  of 
father  Saturn  himself.  And  do  we  live  but  in  the  present? 
How  broad  a  line  is  that  ?  I  sit  now  on  a  stump  whose  rings 
number  centuries  of  growth.  If  I  look  around  I  see  that  the 
soil  is  composed  of  the  remains  of  just  such  stumps,  ancestors 
to  this.  The  earth  is  covered  with  mould.  I  thrust  this 
stick  many  aeons  deep  into  its  surface,  and  with  my  heel 
make  a  deeper  furrow  than  the  elements  have  plowed  here 
for  a  thousand  years.  If  I  listen,  I  hear  the  peep  of  frogs 
which  is  older  than  the  slime  of  Egypt,  and  the  distant  drum- 
ming of  a  partridge  on  a  log,  as  if  it  were  the  pulse  beat  of 
the  summer  air.  I  raise  my  fairest  and  freshest  flowers 
in  the  old  mould.  Why,  what  we  would  fain  call  new  is  not 
skin  deep ;  the  earth  is  not  yet  stained  by  it.  It  is  not  the 
fertile  ground  which  we  walk  on,  but  the  leaves  that  flutter 
over  our  heads.  The  newest  is  but  the  oldest  made  visible 
to  our  senses.  When  we  dig  up  the  soil  from  a  thousand  feet 
below  the  surface,  we  call  it  new,  and  the  plants  which  spring 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  111 

from  it;  and  when  our  vision  pierces  deeper  into  space, 
and  detects  a  remoter  star,  we  call  that  new  also.  The  place 
where  we  sit  is  called  Hudson,  —  once  it  was  Nottingham, 
—  once  — 

We  should  read  history  as  little  critically  as  we  consider 
the  landscape,  and  be  more  interested  by  the  atmospheric 
tints  and  various  lights  and  shades  which  the  intervening 
spaces  create,  than  by  its  groundwork  and  composition.  It 
is  the  morning  now  turned  evening  and  seen  in  the  west,  — 
the  same  sun,  but  a  new  light  and  atmosphere.  Its  beauty 
is  like  the  sunset ;  not  a  fresco  painting  on  a  wall,  flat  and 
bounded,  but  atmospheric  and  roving  or  free.  In  reality, 
history  fluctuates  as  the  face  of  the  landscape  from  morning 
to  evening.  What  is  of  moment  is  its  hue  and  color.  Time 
hides  no  treasures;  we  want  not  its  then,  but  its  now.  We 
do  not  complain  that  the  mountains  in  the  horizon  are  blue 
and  indistinct ;  they  are  the  more  like  the  heavens. 

Of  what  moment  are  facts  that  can  be  lost,  —  which  need 
to  be  commemorated?  The  monument  of  death  will  outlast 
the  memory  of  the  dead.  The  pyramids  do  not  tell  us  the 
tale  that  was  confided  to  them ;  the  living  fact  commemorates 
itself.  Why  look  in  the  dark  for  light?  Strictly  speaking, 
the  historical  societies  have  not  recovered  one  fact  from 
oblivion,  but  are  themselves,  instead  of  the  fact,  that  is  lost. 
The  researcher  is  more  memorable  than  the  researched. 
The  crowd  stood  admiring  the  mist  and  the  dim  outlines  of 
the  trees  seen  through  it,  when  one  of  their  number  advanced 
to  explore  the  phenomenon,  and  with  fresh  admiration  all 
eyes  were  turned  on  his  dimly  retreating  figure.  It  is  aston- 
ishing with  how  little  cooperation  of  the  societies  the  past  is 
remembered.  Its  story  has  indeed  had  another  muse  than 
has  been  assigned  it.  There  is  a  good  instance  of  the  manner 
in  which  all  history  began,  in  Alwdkidis'  Arabian  Chronicle, 
"I  was  informed  by  Ahmed  Almatin  Aljorhami,  who  had  it 
from  Rephda  Ebn  Kais  Aldmiri,  who  had  it  from  Saiph  Ebn 
Fabalah  Alchdtquarmi,  who  had  it  from  Thabet  Ebn  Alkamah, 
who  said  he  was  present  at  the  action."  These  fathers  of 
history  were  not  anxious  to  preserve,  but  to  learn  the  fact ; 
and  hence  it  was  not  forgotten.  Critical  acumen  is  exerted 
in  vain  to  uncover  the  past;  the  past  cannot  be  presented; 
we  cannot  know  what  we  are  not.     But  one  veil  hangs  over 


112  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

past,  present,  and  future,  and  it  is  the  province  of  the  his- 
torian to  find  out,  not  what  was,  but  what  is.  Where  a  battle 
has  been  fought,  you  will  find  nothing  but  the  bones  of  men 
and  beasts ;  where  a  battle  is  being  fought,  there  are  hearts 
beating.  We  will  sit  on  a  mound  and  muse,  and  not  try  to 
make  these  skeletons  stand  on  their  legs  again.  Does  Nature 
remember,  think  you,  that  they  were  men,  or  not  rather  that 
they  are  bones? 

Ancient  history  has  an  air  of  antiquity.  It  should  be 
more  modern.  It  is  written  as  if  the  spectator  should  be 
thinking  of  the  back-side  of  the  picture  on  the  wall,  or  as  if 
the  author  expected  that  the  dead  would  be  his  readers,  and 
wished  to  detail  to  them  their  own  experience.  Men  seem 
anxious  to  accomplish  an  orderly  retreat  through  the  centuries, 
earnestly  rebuilding  the  works  behind,  as  they  are  battered 
down  by  the  encroachments  of  time ;  but  while  they  loiter, 
they  and  their  works  both  fall  a  prey  to  the  arch  enemy. 
History  has  neither  the  venerableness  of  antiquity,  nor  the 
freshness  of  the  modern.  It  does  as  if  it  would  go  to  the 
beginning  of  things,  which  natural  history  might  with  reason 
assume  to  do ;  but  consider  the  Universal  History,  and  then 
tell  us  —  when  did  burdock  and  plantain  sprout  first  ?  It 
has  been  so  written  for  the  most  part,  that  the  times  it  de- 
scribes are  with  remarkable  propriety  called  dark  ages.  They 
are  dark,  as  one  has  observed,  because  we  are  so  in  the  dark 
about  them.  The  sun  rarely  shines  in  history,  what  with 
the  dust  and  confusion ;  and  when  we  meet  with  any  cheering 
fact  which  implies  the  presence  of  this  luminary,  we  excerpt 
and  modernize  it.  As  when  we  read  in  the  history  of  the 
Saxons  that  Edwin  of  Northumbria  "caused  stakes  to  be 
fixed  in  the  highways  where  he  had  seen  a  clear  spring,"  and 
"brazen  dishes  were  chained  to  them,  to  refresh  the  weary 
sojourner,  whose  fatigues  Edwin  had  himself  experienced." 
This  is  worth  all  Arthur's  twelve  battles. 

"Through  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 
Than  fifty  years  of  Europe  better  one  New  England  ray!" 

Biography,  too,  is  liable  to  the  same  objection ;  it  should 
be  autobiography.  Let  us  not,  as  the  Germans  advise, 
endeavor  to  go  abroad  and  vex  our  bowels  that  we  may  be 
somebody  else  to  explain  him.    If  I  am  not  I,  who  will  be? 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  113 

But  it  is  fit  that  the  Past  should  be  dark;  though  the 
darkness  is  not  so  much  a  quality  of  the  past  as  of  tradition. 
It  is  not  a  distance  of  time,  but  a  distance  of  relation,  which 
makes  thus  dusky  its  memorials.  What  is  near  to  the  heart 
of  this  generation  is  fair  and  bright  still.  Greece  lies  out- 
spread fair  and  sunshiny  in  floods  of  light,  for  there  is  the 
sun  and  daylight  in  her  literature  and  art.  Homer  does  not 
allow  us  to  forget  that  the  sun  shone,  —  nor  Phidias,  nor  the 
Parthenon.  Yet  no  era  has  been  wholly  dark,  nor  will  we 
too  hastily  submit  to  the  historian,  and  congratulate  ourselves 
on  a  blaze  of  light.  If  we  could  pierce  the  obscurity  of 
those  remote  years,  we  should  find  it  light  enough;  only 
there  is  not  our  day.  Some  creatures  are  made  to  see  in  the 
dark.  There  has  always  been  the  same  amount  of  light  in 
the  world.  The  new  and  missing  stars,  the  comets  and 
eclipses,  do  not  affect  the  general  illumination,  for  only  our 
-glasses  appreciate  them.  The  eyes  of  the  oldest  fossil  re- 
mains, they  tell  us,  indicate  that  the  same  laws  of  light  pre- 
vailed then  as  now.  Always  the  laws  of  light  are  the  same, 
but  the  modes  and  degrees  of  seeing  vary.  The  gods  are 
partial  to  no  era,  but  steadily  shines  their  light  in  the  heavens, 
while  the  eye  of  the  beholder  is  turned  to  stone.  There  was 
but  the  sun  and  the  eye  from  the  first.  The  ages  have  not 
added  a  new  ray  to  the  one,  nor  altered  a  fibre  of  the  other. 

If  we  will  admit  time  into  our  thoughts  at  all,  the  mythol- 
ogies, those  vestiges  of  ancient  poems,  wrecks  of  poems,  so 
to  speak,  the  world's  inheritance,  still  reflecting  some  of  their 
original  splendor,  like  the  fragments  of  clouds  tinted  by  the 
rays  of  the  departed  sun;  reaching  into  the  latest  summer 
day,  and  allying  this  hour  to  the  morning  of  creation ;  as  the 
poet  sings :  — 

"Fragments  of  the  lofty  strain 
Float  down  the  tide  of  years, 
As  buoyant  on  the  stormy  main 
A  parted  wreck  appears;"  — 

these  are  the  materials  and  hints  for  a  history  of  the  rise  and 
progress  of  the  race;  how,  from  the  condition  of  ants,  it 
arrived  at  the  condition  of  men,  and  arts  were  gradually 
invented.  Let  a  thousand  surmises  shed  some  light  on  this 
story.  We  will  not  be  confined  by  historical,  even  geological 
periods,  which  would  allow  us  to  doubt  of  a  progress  in  human 
affairs.    If  we  rise  above  this  wisdom  for  the  day,  we  shall 


114  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

expect  that  this  morning  of  the  race,  in  which  it  has  been 
supplied  with  the  simplest  necessaries,  with  corn,  and  wine, 
and  honey,  and  oil,  and  fire,  and  articulate  speech,  and  agri- 
cultural and  other  arts,  reared  up,  by  degrees,  from  the  condi- 
tion of  ants,  to  men,  will  be  succeeded  by  a  day  of  equally 
progressive  splendor ;  that,  in  the  lapse  of  the  divine  periods, 
other  divine  agents  and  godlike  men  will  assist  to  elevate 
the  race  as  much  above  its  present  condition.  But  we  do 
not  know  much  about  it. 

Thus  did  one  voyageur  waking  dream,  while  his  companion 
slumbered  on  the  bank.  Suddenly,  a  boatman's  horn  was 
heard,  echoing  from  shore  to  shore,  to  give  notice  of  his  ap- 
proach to  the  farmer's  wife,  with  whom  he  was  to  take  his 
dinner,  though  in  that  place  only  muskrats  and  king-fishers 
seemed  to  hear.  The  current  of  our  reflections  and  our 
slumbers  being  thus  disturbed,  we  weighed  anchor  once  more. 

As  we  proceeded  on  our  way  in  the  afternoon,  the  western 
bank  became  lower,  or  receded  further  from  the  channel 
in  some  places,  leaving  a  few  trees  only  to  fringe  the  water's 
edge;  while  the  eastern  rose  abruptly  here  and  there  into 
wooded  hills  fifty  or  sixty  feet  high.  The  bass,  tilia  Ameri- 
cana, also  called  the  lime  or  linden,  which  was  a  new  tree  to 
us,  overhung  the  water  with  its  broad  and  rounded  leaf, 
interspersed  with  clusters  of  small  hard  berries,  now  nearly 
ripe,  and  made  an  agreeable  shade  for  us  sailors.  The  inner 
bark  of  this  genus  is  the  bast,  the  material  of  the  fisherman's 
matting,  and  the  ropes,  and  peasant's  shoes,  of  which  the 
Russians  make  so  much  use,  and  also  of  nets  and  a  coarse 
cloth  in  some  places.  According  to  poets,  this  was  once 
Philyra,  one  of  the  Oceanides.  The  ancients  are  said  to  have 
used  its  bark  for  the  roofs  of  cottages,  for  baskets,  and  for 
a  kind  of  paper  called  Philyra.  They  also  made  bucklers 
of  its  wood,  "on  account  of  its  flexibility,  lightness,  and  resil- 
iency." It  was  once  much  used  for  carving,  and  is  still  in 
demand  for  panels  of  carriages,  and  for  various  uses  for  which 
toughness  and  flexibility  are  required.  Its  sap  affords  sugar, 
and  the  honey  made  from  its  flowers  is  said  to  be  preferred 
to  any  other.  Its  leaves  are  in  some  countries  given  to  cattle, 
a  kind  of  chocolate  has  been  made  of  its  fruit,  a  medicine 
has  been  prepared  from  an  infusion  of  its  flowers,  and  finally, 
the  charcoal  made  of  its  wood  is  greatly  valued  for  gunpowder. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  115 

The  sight  of  this  tree  reminded  us  that  we  had  reached  a 
strange  land  to  us.  As  we  sailed  under  this  canopy  of  leaves 
we  saw  the  sky  through  its  chinks,  and,  as  it  were,  the  meaning 
and  idea  of  the  tree  stamped  in  a  thousand  hieroglyphics 
on  the  heavens.  The  universe  is  so  aptly  fitted  to  our  or- 
ganization, that  the  eye  wanders  and  reposes  at  the  same 
time.  On  every  side  there  is  something  to  soothe  and  refresh 
this  sense.  Look  up  at  the  tree-tops  and  see  how  finely 
Nature  finishes  off  her  work  there.  See  how  the  pines  spire 
without  end  higher  and  higher,  and  make  a  graceful  fringe 
to  the  earth.  And  who  shall  count  the  finer  cobwebs  that 
soar  and  float  away  from  their  utmost  tops,  and  the  myriad 
insects  that  dodge  between  them.  Leaves  are  of  more  va- 
rious forms  than  the  alphabets  of  all  languages  put  together ; 
of  the  oaks  alone  there  are  hardly  two  alike,  and  each  expresses 
its  own  character. 

In  all  her  products  Nature  only  develops  her  simplest 
germs.  One  would  say  that  it  was  no  great  stretch  of  inven- 
tion to  create  birds.  The  hawk,  which  now  takes  his  flight 
over  the  top  of  the  wood,  was  at  first  perchance  only  a  leaf 
which  fluttered  in  its  aisles.  From  rustling  leaves  she  came  in 
the  course  of  ages  to  the  loftier  flight  and  clear  carol  of  the  bird. 

Salmon  Brook  comes  in  from  the  west  under  the  railroad, 
a  mile  and  a  half  below  the  village  of  Nashua.  We  rode  up 
far  enough  into  the  meadows  which  border  it,  to  learn  its 
piscatorial  history  from  a  hay-maker  on  its  banks.  He 
told  us  that  the  silver  eel  was  formerly  abundant  here,  and 
pointed  to  some  sunken  creels  at  its  mouth.  This  man's 
memory  and  imagination  were  fertile  in  fishermen's  tales  of 
floating  isles  in  bottomless  ponds,  and  of  lakes  mysteriously 
stocked  with  fishes,  and  would  have  kept  us  till  night-fall 
to  listen,  but  we  could  not  afford  to  loiter  in  this  roadstead, 
and  so  stood  out  to  our  sea  again.  Though  we  never  trod 
in  these  meadows,  but  only  touched  their  margin  with  our 
hands,  we  still  retain  a  pleasant  memory  of  them. 

Salmon  Brook,  whose  name  is  said  to  be  a  translation  from 
the  Indian,  was  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  aborigines.  Here 
too  the  first  white  settlers  of  Nashua  planted,  and  some  dents 
in  the  earth,  where  their  houses  stood,  and  the  wrecks  of 
ancient  apple  trees,  are  still  visible.  About  one  mile  up  this 
stream  stood  the  house  of  old  John  Lovewell,  who  was  an 
ensign  in  the  army  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  the  father  of 


116  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

"famous  Captain  Lovewell."  He  settled  here  before  1690, 
and  died  about  1754,  at  the  age  of  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
years.  He  is  thought  to  have  been  engaged  in  the  famous 
Narragansett  swamp  fight,  which  took  place  in  1675,  before 
he  came  here.  The  Indians  are  said  to  have  spared  him  in 
succeeding  wars  on  account  of  his  kindness  to  them.  Even 
in  1700  he  was  so  old  and  gray-headed  that  his  scalp  was 
worth  nothing,  since  the  French  Governor  offered  no  bounty 
for  such.  I  have  stood  in  the  dent  of  his  cellar  on  the  bank  of 
the  brook,  and  talked  there  with  one  whose  grandfather  had, 
whose  father  might  have,  talked  with  Lovewell.  Here  also 
he  had  a  mill  in  his  old  age,  and  kept  a  small  store.  He  was 
remembered  by  some  who  were  recently  living,  as  a  hale  old 
man  who  drove  the  boys  out  of  his  orchard  with  his  cane.  — 
Consider  the  triumphs  of  the  mortal  man,  and  what  poor 
trophies  it  would  have  to  show,  to  wit:  He  cobbled  shoes 
without  glasses  at  a  hundred,  and  cut  a  handsome  swathe 
at  a  hundred  and  five !  —  Love  well's  house  is  said  to  have 
been  the  first  which  Mrs.  Dustin  reached  on  her  escape  from 
the  Indians.  Here  probably  the  hero  of  Pequawket  was 
born  and  bred.  Close  by  may  be  seen  the  cellar  and  the  grave- 
stone of  Joseph  Hassell,  who,  as  was  elsewhere  recorded,  with 
his  wife  Anna  and  son  Benjamin,  and  Mary  Marks,  "were 
slain  by  our  Indian  enemies  on  Sept.  2d  [1691]  in  the  evening." 
As  Gookin  observed  on  a  previous  occasion,  "The  Indian 
irod  upon  the  English  backs  had  not  yet  done  God's  errand." 
;Salmon  Brook  near  its  mouth  is  still  a  solitary  stream,  mean- 
dering through  woods  and  meadows,  while  the  then  unin- 
habited mouth  of  the  Nashua  now  resounds  with  the  din  of 
a  manufacturing  town. 

A  stream  from  Otternic  pond  in  Hudson  comes  in  just 
above  Salmon  Brook,  on  the  opposite  side.  There  was  a 
good  view  of  Uncannunuc,  the  most  conspicuous  mountain 
in  these  parts,  from  the  bank  here,  seen  rising  over  the  west 
end  of  the  bridge  above.  We  soon  after  passed  the  village 
of  Nashua,  on  the  river  of  the  same  name,  where  there  is  a 
covered  bridge  over  the  Merrimack.  The  Nashua,  which  is 
one  of  the  largest  tributaries,  flows  from  Wachusett  moun- 
tain, through  Lancaster,  Groton,  and  other  towns,  where  it 
has  formed  well-known  elm-shaded  meadows,  but  near  its 
mouth  it  is  obstructed  by  falls  and  factories,  and  did  not 
tempt  us  to  explore  it. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  117 

Far  away  from  here,  in  Lancaster,  with  another  companion, 
I  have  crossed  the  broad  valley  of  the  Nashua,  over  which 
we  had  so  long  looked  westward  from  the  Concord  hills  with- 
out seeing  it  to  the  blue  mountains  in  the  horizon.  So  many 
streams,  so  many  meadows  and  woods  and  quiet  dwellings 
of  men  had  lain  concealed  between  us  and  those  Delectable 
Mountains ;  —  from  yonder  hill  on  the  road  to  Tyngsboro* 
you  may  get  a  good  view  of  them.  —  There  where  it  seemed 
uninterrupted  forest  to  our  youthful  eyes,  between  two  neigh- 
boring pines  in  the  horizon,  lay  the  valley  of  the  Nashua, 
and  this  very  stream  was  even  then  winding  at  its  bottom, 
and  then,  as  now,  it  was  here  silently  mingling  its  waters 
with  the  Merrimack.  The  clouds -which  floated  over  its 
meadows  and  were  born  there,  seen  far  in  the  west,  gilded 
by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  had  adorned  a  thousand  even- 
ing skies  for  us.  But  as  it  were  by  a  turf  wall  this  valley 
was  concealed,  and  in  our  journey  to  those  hills  it  was  first 
gradually  revealed  to  us.  Summer  and  winter  our  eyes  had 
rested  on  the  dim  outline  of  the  mountains,  to  which  distance 
and  indistinctness  lent  a  grandeur  not  their  own,  so  that  they 
served  to  interpret  all  the  allusions  of  poets  and  travellers. 
Standing  on  the  Concord  Cliffs  we  thus  spoke  our  mind  to 
them :  — 

With  frontier  strength  ye  stand  your  ground, 

With  grand  content  ye  circle  round, 

Tumultuous  silence  for  all  sound, 

Ye  distant  nursery  of  rills, 

Monadnock  and  the  Peterboro'  hills ;  — 

Firm  argument  that  never  stirs, 

Outcircling  the  philosophers,  — 

Like  some  vast  fleet, 

Sailing  through  rain  and  sleet, 

Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat ; 

Still  holding  on  upon  your  high  emprise, 

Until  ye  find  a  shore  amid  the  skies ; 

Not  skulking  close  to  land, 

With  cargo  contraband, 

For  they  who  sent  a  venture  out  by  ye 

Have  set  the  Sun  to  see 

Their  honesty. 

Ships  of  the  line,  each  one, 
Ye  westward  run, 


118  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Convoying  clouds, 

Which  cluster  in  your  shrouds, 

Always  before  the  gale, 

Under  a  press  of  sail, 

With  weight  of  metal  all  untold,  — 

I  seem  to  feel  ye  in  my  firm  seat  here, 

Immeasurable  depth  of  hold, 

And  breadth  of  beam,  and  length  of  running  gear.  . 

Methinks  ye  take  luxurious  pleasure 

In  your  novel  western  leisure ; 

So  cool  your  brows  and  freshly  blue, 

As  Time  had  naught  for  ye  to  do ; 

For  ye  he  at  your  length, 

An  unappropriated  strength, 

Unhewn  primeval  timber, 

For  knees  so  stiff,  for  masts  so  limber  ; 

The  stock  of  which  new  earths  are  made, 

One  day  to  be  our  western  trade. 

Fit  for  the  stanchions  of  a  world 

Which  through  the  seas  of  space  is  hurled. 

While  we  enjoy  a  lingering  ray, 

Ye  still  o'ertop  the  western  day, 

Reposing  yonder  on  God's  croft 

Like  solid  stacks  of  hay ; 

So  bold  a  line  as  ne'er  was  writ 

On  any  page  by  human  wit ; 

The  forest  glows  as  if 

An  enemy's  camp-fires  shone 

Along  the  horizon, 

Or  the  day's  funeral  pyre 

Were  lighted  there ; 

Edged  with  silver  and  with  gold, 

The  clouds  hang  o'er  in  damask  fold, 

And  with  such  depth  of  amber  light 

The  west  is  dight, 

Where  still  a  few  rays  slant, 

That  even  Heaven  seems  extravagant. 

Watatic  Hill 

Lies  on  the  horizon's  sill 

Like  a  child's  toy  left  over  night, 

And  other  duds  to  left  and  right, 

On  the  earth's  edge,  mountains  and  trees, 

Stand  as  they  were  on  air  graven, 

Or  as  the  vessels  in  a  haven 

Await  the  morning  breeze. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  119 

I  fancy  even 

Through  your  defiles  windeth  the  way  to  Heaven ; 

And  yonder  still,  in  spite  of  history's  page, 

Linger  the  golden  and  the  silver  age ; 

Upon  the  laboring  gale 

The  news  of  future  centuries  is  brought, 

And  of  new  dynasties  of  thought, 

From  your  remotest  vale. 

But  special  I  remember  thee, 

Wachusett,  who  like  me 

Standest  alone  without  society. 

Thy  far  blue  eye, 

A  remnant  of  the  sky, 

Seen  through  the  clearing  or  the  gorge, 

Or  from  the  windows  of  the  forge, 

Doth  leaven  all  it  passes  by. 

Nothing  is  true 

But  stands  'tween  me  and  you, 

Thou  western  pioneer. 

Who  know'st  not  shame  nor  fear, 

By  venturous  spirit  driven 

Under  the  eaves  of  Heaven ; 

And  can'st  expand  thee  there, 

And  breathe  enough  of  air? 

Even  beyond  the  West 

Thou  migratest, 

Into  unclouded  tracts, 

Without  a  pilgrim's  axe, 

Cleaving  thy  road  on  high 

With  thy  well-tempered  brow^ 

And  mak'st  thyself  a  clearing  in  the  sky. 

Upholding  Heaven,  holding  down  earth, 

Thy  pastime  from  thy  birth ; 

Not  steadied  by  the  one,  nor  leaning  on  the  other, 

May  I  approve  myself  thy  worthy  brother ! 

At  length,  like  Rasselas  and  other  inhabitants  of  happy 
valleys,  we  had  resolved  to  scale  the  blue  wall  which  bounded 
the  western  horizon,  though  not  without  misgivings  that 
thereafter  no  visible  fairy  land  would  exist  for  us.  But  it 
would  be  long  to  tell  of  our  adventures,  and  we  have  no  time 
this  afternoon,  transporting  ourselves  in  imagination  up  this 
hazy  Nashua  valley,  to  go  over  again  that  pilgrimage.  We 
have  since  made  many  similar  excursions  to  the  principal 
mountains  of  New  England  and  New  York,  and  even  far 


120  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

in  the  wilderness,  and  have  passed  a  night  on  the  summit  of 
many  of  them.  And  now  when  we  look  again  westward  from 
our  native  hills,  Wachusett  and  Monadnock  have  retreated 
once  more  among  the  blue  and  fabulous  mountains  in  the 
horizon,  though  our  eyes  rest  on  the  very  rocks  on  both  of 
them,  where  we  have  pitched  our  tent  for  a  night,  and  boiled 
our  hasty-pudding  amid  the  clouds. 

As  late  as  1724  there  was  no  house  on  the  north  side  of 
the  Nashua,  but  only  scattered  wigwams  and  grisly  forests 
between  this  frontier  and  Canada.  In  September  of  that 
year,  two  men  who  were  engaged  in  making  turpentine  on 
that  side,  for  such  were  the  first  enterprises  in  the  wilderness, 
were  taken  captive  and  carried  to  Canada  by  a  party  of 
thirty  Indians.  Ten  of  the  inhabitants  of  Dunstable  going 
to  look  for  them,  found  the  hoops  of  their  barrel  cut,  and 
the  turpentine  spread  on  the  ground.  I  have  been  told  by 
an  inhabitant  of  Tyngsboro',  who  had  the  story  from  his 
ancestors,  that  one  of  these  captives,  when  the  Indians  were 
about  to  upset  his  barrel  of  turpentine,  seized  a  pine  knot 
and,  flourishing  it,  swore  so  resolutely  that  he  would  kill  the 
first  who  touched  it,  that  they  refrained,  and  when  at  length 
he  returned  from  Canada  he  found  it  still  standing.  Perhaps 
there  was  more  than  one  barrel.  —  However  this  may  have 
been,  the  scouts  knew  by  marks  on  the  trees,  made  with 
coal  mixed  with  grease,  that  the  men  were  not  killed,  but 
taken  prisoners.  One  of  the  company,  named  Farwell, 
perceiving  that  the  turpentine  had  not  done  spreading, 
concluded  that  the  Indians  had  been  gone  but  a  short  time, 
and  they  accordingly  went  in  instant  pursuit.  Contrary 
to  the  advice  of  Farwell,  following  directly  on  their  trail  up 
the  Merrimack,  they  fell  into  an  ambuscade  near  Thornton's 
Ferry,  in  the  present  town  of  Merrimack,  and  nine  were 
killed,  only  one,  Farwell,  escaping  after  a  vigorous  pursuit. 
The  men  of  Dunstable  went  out  and  picked  up  their  bodies, 
and  carried  them  all  down  to  Dunstable  and  buried  them. 
It  is  almost  word  for  word  as  in  the  Robin  Hood  ballad :  — 

"They  carried  these  foresters  into  fair  Nottingham, 
As  many  there  did  know, 
They  digg'd  them  graves  in  their  churchyard, 
And  they  buried  them  all  a-row." 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  121 

Nottingham  is  only  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  they  were 
not  exactly  all  a-row.  You  may  read  in  the  churchyard  at- 
Dunstable,  under  the  "  Memento  Mori,"  and  the  name  of 
one  of  them,  how  they  "  departed  this  life,"  and 

"This  man  with  seven  more  that  lies  in 
this  grave  was  slew  all  in  a  day  by 
the  Indians." 

The  stones  of  some  others  of  the  company  stand  around  the 
common  grave  with  their  separate  inscriptions.  Eight  were 
buried  here,  but  nine  were  killed,  according  to  the  best 
authorities. 

"Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 

Lo,  thy  streams  are  stained  with  gore, 
Many  a  brave  and  noble  captain 
Floats  along  thy  willowed  shore. 

All  beside  thy  limpid  waters, 

All  beside  thy  sands  so  bright, 
Indian  Chiefs  and  Christian  warriors 

Joined  in  fierce  and  mortal  fight." 

It  is  related  in  the  history  of  Dunstable,  that  on  the  return 
of  Farwell  the  Indians  were  engaged  by  a  fresh  party,  which 
they  compelled  to  retreat,  and  pursued  as  far  as  the  Nashua, 
where  they  fought  across  the  stream  at  its  mouth.  After 
the  departure  of  the  Indians,  the  figure  of  an  Indian's  head 
was  found  carved  by  them  on  a  large  tree  by  the  shore,  which 
circumstance  has  given  its  name  to  this  part  of  the  village  of 
Nashville,  —  the  "Indian  Head."  "It  was  observed  by 
some  judicious,"  says  Gookin,  referring  to  Philip's  war, 
"  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  the  English  soldiers  made 
a  nothing  of  the  Indians,  and  many  spake  words  to  this  effect  'r 
that  one  Englishman  was  sufficient  to  chase  ten  Indians^ 
many  reckoned  it  was  no  other  but  Veni,  vidi,wci"  But 
we  may  conclude  that  the  judicious  would  by  this  time  have 
made  a  different  observation. 

Farwell  appears  to  have  been  the  only  one  who  had  studied 
his  profession,  and  understood  the  business  of  hunting  Indians. 
He  lived  to  fight  another  day,  for  the  next  year  he  was  Love- 
well's  Lieutenant  at  Pequawket,  but  that  time,  as  we  have 
related,  left  his  bones  in  the  wilderness.    His  name  still 


122  A  WEEK   ON  THE  CONCORD 

reminds  us  of  twilight  days  and  forest  scouts  on  Indian  trails, 
with  an  uneasy  scalp;  —  an  indispensable  hero  to  New 
England.  As  the  more  recent  poet  of  LovewelPs  fight  has 
sung,  halting  a  little  but  bravely  still  ;  — 

"Then  did  the  crimson  streams  that  flowed, 
Seem  like  the  waters  of  the  brook, 
That  brightly  shine,  that  loudly  dash, 
Far  down  the  cliffs  of  Agiochook." 

These  battles  sound  incredible  to  us.  I  think  posterity 
will  doubt  if  such  things  ever  were;  if  our  bold  ancestors 
who  settled  this  land  were  not  struggling  rather  with  the 
forest  shadows,  and  not  with  a  copper-colored  race  of  men. 
They  were  vapors,  fever  and  ague  of  the  unsettled  woods. 
Now,  only  a  few  arrow-heads  are  turned  up  by  the  plow. 
In  the  Pelasgic,  the  Etruscan,  or  the  British  story,  there  is 
nothing  so  shadowy  and  unreal. 

It  is  a  wild  and  antiquated  looking  grave-yard,  overgrown 
with  bushes,  on  the  high  road,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
and  overlooking  the  Merrimack,  with  a  deserted  mill  stream 
bounding  it  on  one  side,  where  lie  the  earthly  remains  of 
the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Dunstable.  We  passed  it  three 
or  four  miles  below  here.  You  may  read  there  the  names 
of  Lovewell,  Farwell,  and  many  others  whose  families  were 
distinguished  in  Indian  warfare.  We  noticed  there  two  large 
masses  of  granite  more  than  a  foot  thick  and  rudely  squared, 
lying  flat  on  the  ground  over  the  remains  of  the  first  pastor 
and  his  wife. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  dead  lie  everywhere  under 
stones,  — 

"Strata  jacent  passim  suo  quseque  sub"  lapide  — 

corpora,  we  might  say,  if  the  measure  allowed.  When  the 
stone  is  a  slight  one,  and  stands  upright,  pointing  to  the  skies, 
it  does  not  oppress  the  spirits  of  the  traveller  to  meditate  by 
it;  but  these  did  seem  a  little  heathenish  to  us;  and  so 
are  all  large  monuments  over  men's  bodies,  from  the  pyra- 
mids down.  A  monument  should  at  least  be  "  star-y-point- 
ing,"  to  indicate  whither  the  spirit  is  gone,  and  not  prostrate, 
like  the  body  it  has  deserted.  There  have  been  some  nations 
who  could  do  nothing  but  construct  tombs,  and  these  are 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  123 

the  only  traces  which  they  have  left.  They  are  the  heathen. 
But  why  these  stones,  so  upright  and  emphatic,  like  ex- 
clamation points!  What  was  there  so  remarkable  that 
lived?  Why  should  the  monument  be  so  much  more  endur- 
ing than  the  fame  which  it  is  designed  to  commemorate,  — 
a  stone  to  a  bone?  "  Here  lies,"  —  "  Here  lies  "  ;  —  why 
do  they  not  sometimes  write,  There  rises?  Is  it  a  monument 
to  the  body  only  that  is  intended?  "  Having  reached  the 
term  of  his  natural  life ;  "  —  would  it  not  be  truer  to  say, 
Having  reached  the  term  of  his  unnatural  life?  The  rarest 
quality  in  an  epitaph  is  truth.  If  any  character  is  given  it 
should  be  as  severely  true  as  the  decision  of  the  three  judges 
below,  and  not  the  partial  testimony  of  friends.  Friends 
and  contemporaries  should  supply  only  the  name  and  date, 
and  leave  it  to  posterity  to  write  the  epitaph. 

Here  lies  an  honest  man, 

Rear-Admiral  Van. 

Faith,  then,  ye  have 

Two  in  one  grave, 

For  in  his  favor, 

Here  too  lies  the  Engraver. 

Fame  itself  is  but  an  epitaph;  as  late,  as  false,  as  true. 
But  they  only  are  the  true  epitaphs  which  Old  Mortality 
retouches. 

A  man  might  well  pray  that  he  may  not  taboo  or  curse 
any  portion  of  Nature  by  being  buried  in  it.  For  the  most 
part,  the  man's  spirit  makes  a  fearful  sprite  to  haunt  his 
grave,  and  it  is  therefore  much  to  the  credit  of  Little  John, 
the  famous  follower  of  Robin  Hood,  that  his  grave  was 
"  long  celebrous  for  the  yielding  of  excellent  whetstones." 
I  confess  that  I  have  but  little  love  for  such  collections  as 
they  have  at  the  Catacombs,  Pere  la  Chaise,  Mount  Auburn, 
and  even  this  Dunstable  grave-yard.  At  any  rate,  nothing 
but  great  antiquity  can  make  grave-yards  interesting  to  me. 
I  have  no  friends  there.  It  may  be  that  I  am  not  competent 
to  write  the  poetry  of  the  grave.  The  farmer  who  has 
skimmed  his  farm  might  perchance  leave  his  body  to  Nature 
to  be  plowed  in,  and  in  some  measure  restore  its  fertility. 
We  should  not  retard  but  forward  her  economies. 

Soon  the  village  of  Nashua  was  out  of  sight,  and  the  woods 
were  gained  again,  and  we  rowed  slowly  on  before  sunset, 


124  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

looking  for  a  solitary  place  in  which  to  spend  the  night.  A 
few  evening  clouds  began  to  be  reflected  in  the  water,  and 
the  surface  was  dimpled  only  here  and  there  by  a  muskrat 
crossing  the  stream.  We  camped  at  length  near  Penichook 
Brook,  on  the  confines  of  Nashville,  by  a  deep  ravine,  under 
the  skirts  of  a  pine  wood,  where  the  dead  pine  leaves  were 
our  carpet,  and  their  tawny  boughs  stretched  over  head. 
But  fire  and  smoke  soon  tamed  the  scene;  the  rocks  con- 
sented to  be  our  walls,  and  the  pines  our  roof.  A  woodside 
was  already  the  fittest  locality  for  us. 

The  wilderness  is  near,  as  well  as  dear,  to  every  man. 
Even  the  oldest  villages  are  indebted  to  the  border  of  wild 
wood  which  surrounds  them,  more  than  to  the  gardens  of 
men.  There,  is  something  indescribably  inspiriting  and 
beautiful  in  the  aspect  of  the  forest  skirting  and  occasionally 
jutting  into  the  midst  of  new  towns,  which,  like  the  sand- 
heaps  of  fresh  fox  burrows,  have  sprung  up  in  their  midst. 
The  very  uprightness  of  the  pines  and  maples  asserts  the 
ancient  rectitude  and  vigor  of  nature.  Our  lives  need  the 
relief  of  such  a  background,  where  the  pine  flourishes  and 
the  jay  still  .screams,  y 

We  had  found  a  safe  harbor  for  our  boat,  and  as  the  sun 
was  setting  carried  up  our  furniture,  and  soon  arranged  our 
house  upon  the  bank,  and  while  the  kettle  steamed  at  the 
tent  door,  we  chatted  of  distant  friends,  and  of  the  sights 
we  were  to  behold,  and  wondered  which  way  the  towns  lay 
from  us.  Our  cocoa  was  soon  boiled,  and  supper  set  upon 
our  chest,  and  we  lengthened  out  this  meal,  like  old  voyageurs, 
with  our  talk.  Meanwhile  we  spread  the  map  on  the  ground, 
and  read  in  the  gazetteer  when  the  first  settlers  came  here 
and  got  a  township  granted.  Then,  when  supper  was  done, 
and  we  had  written  the  journal  of  our  voyage,  we  wrapped 
our  buffaloes  about  us,  and  lay  down  with  our  heads  pillowed 
on  our  arms,  listening  awhile  to  the  distant  baying  of  a  dog, 
or  the  murmurs  of  the  river,  or  to  the  wind,  which  had  not 
gone  to  rest, — 

The  western  wind  came  lumbering  in, 
Bearing  a  faint  Pacific  din, 
Our  evening  mail,  swift  at  the  call 
Of  its  Post-Master  General ; 
Laden  with  news  from  Calif orn', 
Whate'er  transpired  hath  since  morn, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  125 

How  wags  the  world  by  brier  and  brake 
From  hence  to  Athabasca  lake ;  — 

or  half  awake  and  half  asleep,  dreaming  of  a  star  which 
glimmered  through  our  cotton  roof.  Perhaps  at  midnight 
one  was  awakened  by  a  cricket  shrilly  singing  on  his  shoulder, 
or  by  a  hunting  spider  in  his  eye,  and  was  lulled  asleep  again 
by  some  streamlet  purling  its  way  along  at  the  bottom  of  a 
wooded  and  rocky  ravine  in  our  neighborhood.  It  was 
pleasant  to  lie  with  our  heads  so  low  in  the  grass,  and  hear 
what  a  tinkling  ever-busy  laboratory  it  was.  A  thousand 
little  artisans  beat  on  their  alrvTIsalTnight  long. 

Far  in  the  night,  as  we  were  falling  asleep  on  the  bank 
of  the  Merrimack,  we  heard  some  tyro  beating  a  drum 
incessantly,  in  preparation  for  a  country  muster,  as  we 
learned,  and  we  thought  of  the  line, 

"When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night." 

We  could  have  assured  him  that  his  beat  would  be  answered, 
and  the  forces  be  mustered.  Fear  not,  thou  drummer  of 
the  night,  we  too  will  be  there.  And  still  he  drummed  on 
in  the  silence  of  the  dark.  This  stray  sound  from  a  far-off 
sphere  came  to  our  ears  from  time  to  time,  far,  sweet,  and 
significant,  and  we  listened  with  such  an  unprejudiced  sense 
as  if  for  the  first  time  we  heard  at  all.  No  doubt  he  was 
an  insignificant  drummer  enough,  but  his  music  afforded 
us  a  prime  and  leisure  hour,  and  we  felt  that  we  were  in 
season  wholly.  These  simple  sounds  related  us  to  the  stars. 
Aye,  there  was  a  logic  in  them  so  convincing  that  the  com- 
bined sense  of  mankind  could  never  make  me  doubt  their  con- 
clusions. I  stop  my  habitual  thinking,  as  if  the  plow  had 
suddenly  run  deeper  in  its  furrow  through  the  crust  of  the 
world.  How  can  I  go  on,  who  have  just  stepped  over  such 
a  bottomless  skylight  in  the  bog  of  my  life.  Suddenly  old 
Time  winked  at  me,  —  Ah,  you  know  me,  you  rogue,  —  and 
news  had  come  that  it  was  well.  That  ancient  universe 
is  in  such  capital  health,  I  think  undoubtedly  it  will  never 
die.    Heal  yourselves,  doctors;    by  God  I  live. — 

Then  idle  Time  ran  gadding  by 
And  left  me  with  Eternity  alone ; 

I  hear  beyond  the  range  of  sound, 

I  see  beyond  the  verge  of  sight,  — 


126  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

I  see,  smell,  taste,  hear,  feel,  that  everlasting  Something  to 
which  we  are  allied,  at  once  our  maker,  our  abode,  our  destiny, 
our  very  Selves  ;  the  one  historic  truth,  the  most  remarkable 
fact  which  can  become  the  distinct  and  uninvited  subject 
of  our  thought,  the  actual  glory  of  the  universe  ;  the  only 
fact  which  a  human  being  cannot  avoid  recognizing,  or  in 
some  way  forget  or  dispense  with. — 

It  doth  expand  my  privacies 
To  all,  and  leave  me  single  in  the  crowd. 

I  have  seen  how  the  foundations  of  the  world  are  laid,  and 
I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  it  will  stand  a  good  while. 

Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour, 

And  only  now  my  prime  of  life. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold, 

Which  not  my  worth  nor  want  hath  brought, 

Which  wooed  me  young  and  wooes  me  old, 

And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought. 

What  are  ears?  what  is  Time?  that  this  particular  series 
of  sounds  called  a  strain  of  music,  an  invisible  and  fairy  troop 
which  never  brushed  the  dew  from  any  mead,  can  be  wafted 
down  through  the  centuries  from  Homer  to  me,  and  he  have 
been  conversant  with  that  same  aerial  and  mysterious  charm 
which  now  so  tingles  my  ears?  What  a  fine  communication 
from  age  to  age,  of  the  fairest  and  noblest  thoughts,  the 
aspirations  of  ancient  men,  even  such  as  were  never  com- 
municated by  speech !  It  is  the  flower  of  language,  thought 
colored  and  curved,  fluent  and  flexible,  its  crystal  fountain 
tinged  with  the  sun's  rays,  and  its  purling  ripples  reflecting 
the  grass  and  the  clouds.  A  strain  of  music  reminds  me  of 
a  passage  of  the  Vedas,  and  I  associate  with  it  the  idea  of 
infinite  remoteness,  as  well  as  beauty  and  serenity,  for  to 
the  senses  that  is  furthest  from  us  which  addresses  the 
greatest  depth  within  us.  It  teaches  us  again  and  again  to 
trust  the  remotest  and  finest  as  the  divinest  instinct,  and 
makes  a  dream  our  only  real  experience.  As  polishing  ex- 
presses the  vein  in  marble  and  grain  in  wood,  so  music  brings 
out  what  of  heroic  lurks  anywhere.  The  hero  is  the  sole 
patron  of  music.  That  harmony  which  exists  naturally 
between  the  hero's  moods  and  the  universe  the  soldier  would 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  127 

fain  imitate  with  drum  and  trumpet.  When  we  are  in 
health  all  sounds  fife  and  drum  for  us  ;  we  hear  the  notes 
of  music  in  the  air,  or  catch  its  echoes  dying  away  when  we 
awake  in  the  dawn.  Marching  is  when  the  pulse  of  the  hero 
beats  in  unison  with  the  pulse  of  Nature,  and  he  steps  to  the 
measure  of  the  universe  ;  then  there  is  true  courage  and 
invincible  strength. 

Plutarch  says  that  "  Plato  thinks  the  gods  never  gave 
men  music,  the  science  of  melody  and  harmony,  for  mere 
delectation  or  to  tickle  the  ear;  but  that  the  discordant 
parts  of  the  circulations  and  beauteous  fabric  of  the  soul, 
and  that  of  it  that  roves  about  the  body,  and  many  times, 
for  want  of  tune  and  air,  breaks  forth  into  many  extrava- 
gances and  excesses,  might  be  sweetly  recalled  and  artfully 
wound  up  to  their  former  consent  and  agreement." 

Music  is  the  sound  of  the  universal  laws  promulgated. 
It  is  the  only  assured  tone.  There  are  in  it  such  strains  as 
far  surpass  any  man's  faith  in  the  loftiness  of  his  destiny. 
Things  are  to  be  learned  which  it  will  be  worth  the  while 
to  learn.    Formerly  I  heard  these 


RUMORS  FROM  AN  jEOLIAN  HARP 

There  is  a  vale  which  none  hath  seen, 
Where  foot  of  man  has  never  been, 
Such  as  here  lives  with  toil  and  strife, 
An  anxious  and  a  sinful  life. 

There  every  virtue  has  its  birth, 
Ere  it  descends  upon  the  earth, 
And  thither  every  deed  returns, 
Which  in  the  generous  bosom  burns. 

There  love  is  warm,  and  youth  is  young, 
And  poetry  is  yet  unsung, 
For  Virtue  still  adventures  there, 
And  freely  breathes  her  native  air. 

And  ever,  if  you  hearken  well, 
You  still  may  hear  its  vesper  bell, 
And  tread  of  high-souled  men  go  by, 
Their  thoughts  conversing  with  the  sky. 


128  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

According  to  Jamblichus,  "  Pythagoras  did  not  procure 
for  himself  a  thing  of  this  kind  through  instruments  of  the 
voice,  but  employing  a  certain  ineffable  divinity,  and  which 
it  is  difficult  to  apprehend,  he  extended  his  ears  and  fixed 
his  intellect  in  the  sublime  symphonies  of  the  world,  he 
alone  hearing  and  understanding,  as  it  appears,  the  universal 
harmony  and  consonance  of  the  spheres,  and  the  stars  that 
are  moved  through  them,  and  which  produce  a  fuller  and  more 
intense  melody  than  anything  effected  by  mortal  sounds." 

Travelling  on  foot  very  early  one  morning  due  east  from 
here  about  twenty  miles,  from  Caleb  Harriman's  tavern  in 
Hampstead  toward  Haverhill,  when  I  reached  the  railroad 
in  Plaistow,  I  heard  at  some  distance  a  faint  music  in  the 
air  like  an  iEolian  harp,  which  I  immediately  suspected  to 
proceed  from  the  cord  of  the  telegraph  vibrating  in  the  just 
awakening  morning  wind,  and  applying  my  ear  to  one  of 
the  posts  I  was  convinced  that  it  was  so.  It  was  the  tele- 
graph harp  singing  its  message  through  the  country,  its 
message  sent  not  by  men  but  by  gods.  Perchance,  like  the 
statue  of  Memnon,  it  resounds  only  in  the  morning  when  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun  fall  on  it.  It  was  like  the  first  lyre  or 
shell  heard  on  the  sea-shore,  —  that  vibrating  cord  high  in 
the  air  over  the  shores  of  earth.  So  have  all  things  their 
higher  and  their  lower  uses.  I  heard  a  fairer  news  than  the 
journals  ever  print.  It  told  of  things  worthy  to  hear,  and 
worthy  of  the  electric  fluid  to  carry  the  news  of,  not  of  the 
price  of  cotton  and  flour,  but  it  hinted  at  the  price  of  the 
world  itself  and  of  things  which  are  priceless,  of  absolute 
truth  and  beauty. 

Still  the  drum  rolled  on,  and  stirred  our  blood  to  fresh 
extravagance  that  night.  The  clarion  sound  and  clang  of 
corselet  and  buckler  were  heard  from  many  a  hamlet  of  the 
soul,  and  many  a  knight  was  arming  for  the  fight  behind 
the  encamped  stars. — 

11  Before  each  van 
Prick  forth  the  aery  knights,  and  couch  their  spears 
Till  thickest  legions  close ;  with  feats  of  arms 
From  either  end  of  Heaven  the  welkin  burns." 

Away!  away!  away!  away! 

Ye  have  not  kept  your  secret  well, 
I  will  abide  that  other  day, 

Those  other  lands  ye  tell. 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  129 

Has  time  no  leisure  left  for  these, 

The  acts  that  ye  rehearse? 
Is  not  eternity  a  lease 

For  better  deeds  than  verse? 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear  of  heroes  dead, 

To  know  them  still  alive, 
But  sweeter  if  we  earn  their  bread, 

And  in  us  they  survive. 

Our  life  should  feed  the  springs  of  fame 

With  a  perennial  wave, 
As  ocean  feeds  the  babbling  founts 

Which  find  in  it  their  grave. 

Ye  skies  drop  gently  round  my  breast, 

And  be  my  corselet  blue, 
Ye  earth  receive  my  lance  in  rest, 

My  faithful  charger  you ; 

Ye  stars  my  spear-heads  in  the  sky, 

My  arrow-tips  ye  are,  — 
I  see  the  routed  foemen  fly, 

My  bright  spears  fixed  are. 

Give  me  an  angel  for  a  foe, 

Fix  now  the  place  and  time, 
And  straight  to  meet  him  I  will  go 

Above  the  starry  chime. 

And  with  our  clashing  bucklers'  clang 

The  heavenly  spheres  shall  ring, 
While  bright  the  northern  lights  shall  hang 

Beside  our  tourneying. 

And  if  she  lose  her  champion  true, 

Tell  Heaven  not  despair, 
For  I  will  be  her  champion  new, 

Her  fame  I  will  repair. 

There  was  a  high  wind  this  night,  which  we  afterwards 
learned  had  been  still  more  violent  elsewhere,  and  had  done 
much  injury  to  the  corn-fields  far  and  near;  but  we  only 
heard  it  sigh  from  time  to  time,  as  if  it  had  no  license  to 
shake  the  foundations  of  our  tent  ;  the  pines  murmured, 
the  water  rippled,  and  the  tent  rocked  a  little,  but  we  only 
laid  our  ears  closer  to  the  ground  while  the  blast  swept  on 
to  alarm  other  men,  and  long  before  sunrise  we  were  ready 
to  pursue  our  voyage  as  usual. 


130  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 


TUESDAY 

"On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  fields  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-towered  Camelot." 

—  Tennyson. 

Long  before  daylight  we  ranged  abroad  with  hatchet  in 
hand,  in  search  of  fuel,  and  made  the  yet  slumbering  and 
dreaming  wood  resound  with  our  blows.  Then  with  our 
fire  we  burned  up  a  portion  of  the  loitering  night,  while 
the  kettle  sang  its  homely  strain  to  the  morning  star.  We 
tramped  about  the  shore,  waked  all  the  muskrats,  and  scared 
up  the  bittern  and  birds  that  were  asleep  upon  their  roosts ; 
we  hauled  up  and  upset  our  boat,  and  washed  it  and  rinsed 
out  the  clay,  talking  aloud  as  if  it  were  broad  day,  until 
at  length,  by  three  o'clock,  we  had  completed  our  prepara- 
tions and  were  ready  to  pursue  our  voyage  as  usual;  so, 
shaking  the  clay  from  our  feet,  we  pushed  into  the  fog. 

Though  we  were  enveloped  in  mist  as  usual,  we  trusted 
that  there  was  a  bright  day  behind  it. 

Ply  the  oars !  away !  away ! 
In  each  dew-drop  of  the  morning 

Lies  the  promise  of  a  day. 
Rivers  from  the  sunrise  flow, 

Springing  with  the  dewy  morn ; 
Voyageurs  'gainst  time  do  row, 
Idle  noon  nor  sunset  know, 

Ever  even  with  the  dawn. 

Belknap,  the  historian  of  this  State,  says  that "  In  the  neigh- 
borhood of  fresh  rivers  and  ponds,  a  whitish  fog  in  the  morning, 
lying  over  the  water,  is  a  sure  indication  of  fair  weather  for 
that  day ;  and  when  no  fog  is  seen,  rain  is  expected  before 
night."  That  which  seemed  to  us  to  invest  the  world,  was 
only  a  narrow  and  shallow  wreath  of  vapor  stretched  over 
the  channel  of  the  Merrimack  from  the  sea-board  to  the  moun- 
tains. More  extensive  fogs,  however,  have  their  own  limits. 
I  once  saw  the  day  break  from  the  top  of  Saddle-back  Moun- 
tain in  Massachusetts,  above  the  clouds.    As  we  cannot  dis- 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  131 

tinguish  objects  through  this  dense  fog,  let  me  tell  this  story 
more  at  length. 

I  had  come  over  the  hills  on  foot  and  alone  in  serene 
summer  days,  plucking  the  raspberries  by  the  wayside, 
and  occasionally  buying  a  loaf  of  bread  at  a  farmer's  house, 
with  a  knapsack  on  my  back,  which  held  a  few  traveller's 
books  and  a  change  of  clothing,  and  a  staff  in  my  hand. 
I  had  that  morning  looked  down  from  the  Hoosack  Mountain, 
where  the  road  crosses  it,  on  the  village  of  North  Adams  in 
the  valley,  three  miles  away  under  my  feet,  showing  how 
uneven  the  earth  may  sometimes  be,  and  making  it  seem 
an  accident  that  it  should  ever  be  level  and  convenient  for 
the  feet  of  man.  Putting  a  little  rice  and  sugar  and  a  tin 
cup  into  my  knapsack  at  this  village,  I  began  in  the  after- 
noon to  ascend  the  mountain,  whose  summit  is  three  thou- 
sand six  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  was 
seven  or  eight  miles  distant  by  the  path.  My  route  lay  up 
a  long  and  spacious  valley  called  the  Bellows,  because  the 
winds  rush  up  or  down  it  with  violence  in  storms,  sloping 
up  to  the  very  clouds  between  the  principal  range  and  a 
lower  mountain.  There  were  a  few  farms  scattered  along 
at  different  elevations,  each  commanding  a  fine  prospect 
of  the  mountains  to  the  north,  and  a  stream  ran  down  the 
middle  of  the  valley,  on  which  near  the  head  there  was  a  mill. 
It  seemed  a  road  for  the  pilgrim  to  enter  upon  who  would 
climb  to  the  gates  of  heaven.  Now  I  crossed  a  hay-field, 
and  now  over  the  brook  on  a  slight  bridge,  still  gradually 
ascending  all  the  while,  with  a  sort  of  awe,  and  filled  with 
indefinite  expectations  as  to  what  kind  of  inhabitants  and 
what  kind  of  nature  I  should  come  to  at  last.  It  now  seemed 
some  advantage  that  the  earth  was  uneven,  for  one  could 
not  imagine  a  more  noble  position  for  a  farm-house  than  this 
vale  afforded,  further  from  or  nearer  to  its  head,  from  a  glen- 
like seclusion  overlooking  the  country  at  a  great  elevation 
between  these  two  mountain  walls. 

It  reminded  me  of  the  homesteads  of  the  Huguenots  on 
Staten  Island,  off  the  coast  of  New  Jersey.  The  hills  in  the 
interior  of  this  island,  though  comparatively  low,  are  pene- 
trated in  various  directions  by  similar  sloping  valleys  on  a 
humble  scale,  gradually  narrowing  and  rising  to  the  centre, 
and  at  the  head  of  these  the  Huguenots,  who  were  the  first 


132  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

settlers,  placed  their  houses,  quite  within  the  land,  in  rural 
and  sheltered  places,  in  leafy  recesses  where  the  breeze 
played  with  the  poplar  and  the  gum  tree,  from  which,  with 
equal  security  in  calm  and  storm,  they  looked  out  through  a 
widening  vista,  over  miles  of  forest  and  stretching  salt  marsh, 
to  the  Huguenots'  Tree,  an  old  elm  on  the  shore  at  whose 
root  they  had  landed,  and  across  the  spacious  outer  bay  of 
New  York  to  Sandy  Hook  and  the  Highlands  of  Neversink, 
and  thence  over  leagues  of  the  Atlantic,  perchance  to  some 
faint  vessel  in  the  horizon,  almost  a  day's  sail  on  her  voyage 
to  that  Europe  whence  they  had  come.  When  walking  in 
the  interior  there,  in  the  midst  of  rural  scenery,  where  there 
was  as  little  to  remind  me  of  the  ocean  as  amid  the  New 
Hampshire  hills,  I  have  suddenly,  through  a  gap,  a  cleft  or 
"  clove  road,"  as  the  Dutch  settlers  called  it,  caught  sight 
of  a  ship  under  full  sail,  over  a  field  of  corn,  twenty  or  thirty 
miles  at  sea.  The  effect  was  similar,  since  I  had  no  means 
of  measuring  distances,  to  seeing  a  painted  ship  passed  back- 
wards and  forwards  through  a  magic  lantern. 

But  to  return  to  the  mountain.  It  seemed  as  if  he  must 
be  the  most  singular  and  heavenly-minded  man  whose  dwell- 
ing stood  highest  up  the  valley.  The  thunder  had  rumbled 
at  my  heels  all  the  way,  but  the  shower  passed  off  in  another 
direction,  though  if  it  had  not,  I  half  believed  that  I  should 
get  above  it.  I  at  length  reached  the  last  house  but  one, 
where  the  path  to  the  summit  diverged  to  the  right,  while 
the  summit  itself  rose  directly  in  fro  it.  But  I  determined 
to  follow  up  the  valley  to  its  head,  and  then  find  my  own 
route  up  the  steep,  as  the  shorter  and  more  adventurous  way. 
I  Jiad  thoughts  of  returning  to  this  house,  which  was  well 
kept  and  so  nobly  placed,  the  next  day,  and  perhaps  remain- 
ing a  week  there,  if  I  could  have  entertainment.  Its  mistress 
was  a  frank  and  hospitable  young  woman,  who  stood  before 
me  in  a  dishabille,  busily  and  unconcernedly  combing  her  long 
black  hair  while  she  talked,  giving  her  head  the  necessary 
toss  with  each  sweep  of  the  comb,  with  lively,  sparkling  eyes, 
and  full  of  interest  in  that  lower  world  from  which  I  had 
come,  talking  all  the  while  as  familiarly  as  if  she  had  known 
me  for  years,  and  reminding  me  of  a  cousin  of  mine.  She 
at  first  had  taken  me  for  a  student  from  Williamstown,  for 
they  went  by  in  parties,  she  said,  either  riding  or  walking, 
almost  every  pleasant  day,  and  were  a  pretty  wild  set  of 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  133 

fellows ;  but  they  never  went  by  the  way  I  was  going.  As 
I  passed  the  last  house,  a  man  called  out  to  know  what  I  had 
to  sell,  for  seeing  my  knapsack,  he  thought  that  I  might  be 
a  pedler,  who  was  taking  this  unusual  route  over  the  ridge 
of  the  valley  into  South  Adams.  He  told  me  that  it  was  still 
four  or  five  miles  to  the  summit  by  the  path  which  I  had  left, 
though  not  more  than  two  in  a  straight  line  from  where  I  was, 
but  nobody  ever  went  this  way ;  there  was  no  path,  and  I 
should  find  it  as  steep  as  the  roof  of  a  house.  But  I  knew 
that  I  was  more  used  to  woods  and  mountains  than  he,  and 
went  along  through  his  cow-yard,  while  he,  looking  at  the 
sun,  shouted  after  me  that  I  should  not  get  to  the  top  that 
night.  I  soon  reached  the  head  of  the  valley,  but  as  I  could 
not  see  the  summit  from  this  point,  ascended  a  low  mountain 
on  the  opposite  side,  and  took  its  bearing  with  my  compass. 
I  at  once  entered  the  woods,  and  began  to  climb  the  steep 
side  of  the  mountain  in  a  diagonal  direction,  taking  the  bear- 
ing of  a  tree  every  dozen  rods.  The  ascent  was  by  no  means 
difficult  or  unpleasant,  and  occupied  much  less  time  than  it 
would  have  taken  to  follow  the  path.  Even  country  people, 
I  have  observed,  magnify  the  difficulty  of  travelling  in  the 
forest,  and  especially  among  the  mountains.  They  seem 
to  lack  their  usual  common  sense  in  this.  I  have  climbed 
several  higher  mountains  without  guide  or  path,  and  have 
found,  as  might  be  expected,  that  it  takes  only  more  time 
and  patience  commonly  than  to  travel  the  smoothest  high- 
way. It  is  very  rare  lhat  you  meet  with  obstacles  in  this 
world,  which  the  humblest  man  has  not  faculties  to  sur- 
mount. It  is  true,  we  may  come  to  a  perpendicular  preci- 
pice, but  we  need  not  jump  off,  nor  run  our  heads  against 
it.  A  man  may  jump  down  his  own  cellar  stairs,  or  dash  hre' 
brains  out  against  his  chimney,  if  he  is  mad.  So  far  as  my 
experience  goes,  travellers  generally  exaggerate  the  difficulties 
of  the  way.  f  Like  most  evils,  the  difficulty  is  imaginary ; 
for  what's  the  hurry?  If  a  person  lost  would  conclude  that 
after  all  he  is  not  lost,  he  is  not  beside  himself,  but  standing 
in  his  own  old  shoes  on  the  very  spot  where  he  is,  and  that 
for  the  time  being  he  will  live  there  ;  but  the  places  that 
have  known  him,  they  are  lost,  —  how  much  anxiety  and 
danger  would  vanish.  I  am  not  .alone  if  I  stand  by  myself. 
Who  knows  where  in  space  this  globe  is  rolling?  Yet  we 
will  not  give  ourselves  up  for  lost,  let  it  go  where  it  will. 


134  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

I  made  my  way  steadily  upward  in  a  straight  line  through 
a  dense  undergrowth  of  mountain  laurel,  until  the  trees  began 
to  have  a  scraggy  and  infernal  look,  as  if  contending  with 
frost  goblins,  and  at  length  I  reached  the  summit,  just  as 
the  sun  was  setting.  Several  acres  here  had  been  cleared, 
and  were  covered  with  rocks  and  stumps,  and  there  was 
a  rude  observatory  in  the  middle  which  overlooked  the  woods. 
I  had  one  fair  view  of  the  country  before  the  sun  went  down, 
but  I  was  too  thirsty  to  waste  any  light  in  viewing  the  pros- 
pect, and  set  out  directly  to  find  water.  First,  going  down 
a  well-beaten  path  for  half  a  mile  through  the  low  scrubby 
wood,  till  I  came  to  where  the  water  stood  in  the  tracks  of 
the  horses  which  had  carried  travellers  up,  I  lay  down  flat, 
and  drank  these  dry  one  after  another,  a  pure,  cold,  spring- 
like water,  but  yet  I  could  not  fill  my  dipper,  though  I  con- 
trived little  syphons  of  grass  stems  and  ingenious  aqueducts 
on  a  small  scale ;  it  was  too  slow  a  process.  Then  remember- 
ing that  I  had  passed  a  moist  place  near  the  top  on  my  way 
up,  I  returned  to  find  it  again,  and  here  with  sharp  stones 
and  my  hands,  in  the  twilight,  I  made  a  well  about  two  feet 
deep,  which  was  soon  filled  with  pure  cold  water,  and  the 
birds  too  came  and  drank  at  it.  So  I  filled  my  dipper,  and 
making  my  way  back  to  the  observatory,  collected  some 
dry  sticks  and  made  a  fire  on  some  flat  stones,  which  had 
been  placed  on  the  floor  for  that  purpose,  and  so  I  soon  cooked 
my  supper  of  rice,  having  already  whittled  a  wooden  spoon 
to  eat  it  with. 

I  sat  up  during  the  evening,  reading  by  the  light  of  the  fire 
the  scraps  of  newspapers  in  which  some  party  had  wrapped 
their  luncheon ;  the  prices  current  in  New  York  and  Boston, 
the  advertisements,  and  the  singular  editorials  which  some 
had  seen  fit  to  publish,  not  foreseeing  under  what  critical 
circumstances  they  would  be  read.  I  read  these  things  at 
a  vast  advantage  there,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  adver- 
tisements, or  what  is  called  the  business  part  of  a  paper,  were 
greatly  the  best,  the  most  useful,  natural,  and  respectable. 
Almost  all  the  opinions  and  sentiments  expressed  were  so 
little  considered,  so  shallow  and  flimsy,  that  I  thought  the 
very  texture  of  the  paper  must  be  weaker  in  that  part  and 
tear  the  more  easily.  The  advertisements  and  the  prices 
current  were  more  closely  allied  to  nature,  and  were  re- 
spectable in  some  measure  as  tide  and  meteorological  tables 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  135 

are ;  but  the  reading  matter,  which  I  remembered  was  most 
prized  down  below,  unless  it  was  some  humble  record  of 
science,  or  an  extract  from  some  old  classic,  struck  me  as 
strangely  whimsical  and  crude,  and  one-idea'd,  like  a  school- 
boy's theme,  such  as  youths  write  and  after  burn.  The 
opinions  were  of  that  kind  that  are  doomed  to  wear  a  different 
aspect  to-morrow,  like  last  year's  fashions;  as  if  mankind 
were  very  green  indeed,  and  would  be  ashamed  of  themselves 
in  a  few  years,  when  they  had  outgrown  this  verdant  period. 
There  was,  moreover,  a  singular  disposition  to  wit  and  humor, 
but  rarely  the  slightest  real  success ;  and  the  apparent  success 
was  a  terrible  satire  on  the  attempt;  as  if  the  Evil  Genius 
of  man  laughed  the  loudest  at  his  best  jokes.  The  adver- 
tisements, as  I  have  said,  such  as  were  serious,  and  not  of  the 
modern  quack  kind,  suggested  pleasing  and  poetic  thoughts ; 
for  commerce  is  really  as  interesting  as  nature.  The  very 
names  of  the  commodities  were  poetic,  and  as  suggestive 
as  if  they  had  been  inserted  in  a  pleasing  poem.  —  Lumber, 
Cotton,  Sugar,  Hides,  Guano,  and  Log-wood.  Some  sober, 
private,  and  original  thought  would  have  been  grateful  to 
read  here,  and  as  much  in  harmony  with  the  circumstances 
as  if  it  had  been  written  on  a  mountain  top  ;  for  it  is  of 
a  fashion  which  never  changes,  and  as  respectable  as  hides 
and  log-wood,  or  any  natural  product.  What  an  inesti- 
mable companion  such  a  scrap  of  paper  would  have  been, 
containing  some  fruit  of  a  mature  life.  What  a  relic !  What 
a  recipe !  It  seemed  a  divine  invention,  by  which  not  mere 
shining  coin,  but  shining  and  current  thoughts,  could  be 
brought  up  and  left  there. 

As  it  was  cold,  I  collected  quite  a  pile  of  wood  and  lay 
down  on  a  board  against  the  side  of  the  building,  not  having 
any  blanket  to  cover  me,  with  my  head  to  the  fire,  that  I 
might  look  after  it,  which  is  not  the  Indian  rule.  But  as 
it  grew  colder  towards  midnight,  I  at  length  encased  myself 
completely  in  boards,  managing  even  to  put  a  board  on  top 
of  me,  with  a  large  stone  on  it,  to  keep  it  down,  and  so  slept 
comfortably.  I  was  reminded,  it  is  true,  of  the  Irish  chil- 
dren, who  inquired  what  their  neighbors  did  who  had  no 
door  to  put  over  them  in  winter  nights  as  they  had  ;  but 
I  am  convinced  that  there  was  nothing  very  strange  in  the 
inquiry.  Those  who  have  never  tried  it  can  have  no  idea 
how  far  a  door,  which  keeps  the  single  blanket  down,  may 


136  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

go  toward  making  one  comfortable.  We  are  constituted 
a  good  deal  like  chickens,  which  taken  from  the  hen,  and  put 
in  a  basket  of  cotton  in  the  chimney  corner,  will  often  peep 
till  they  die  nevertheless,  but  if  you  put  in  a  book,  or  any- 
thing heavy,  which  will  press  down  the  cotton,  and  feel  like 
the  hen,  they  go  to  sleep  directly.  My  only  companions 
were  the  mice,  which  came  to  pick  up  the  crumbs  that  had 
been  left  in  those  scraps  of  paper  ;  still,  as  everywhere, 
pensioners  on  man,  and  not  unwisely  improving  this  ele- 
vated track  for  their  habitation.  They  nibbled  what  was 
for  them;  I  nibbled  what  was  for  me.  Once  or  twice  in 
the  night,  when  I  looked  up,  I  saw  a  white  cloud  drifting 
through  the  windows,  and  filling  the  whole  upper  story. 

This  observatory  was  a  building  of  considerable  size 
erected  by  the  students  of  Williamstown  College,  whose 
buildings  might  be  seen  by  daylight  gleaming  far  down  in 
the  valley.  It  would  really  be  no  small  advantage  if  every 
college  were  thus  located  at  the  base  of  a  mountain,  as  good 
at  least  as  one  well-endowed  professorship.  It  were  as  well 
to  be  educated  in  the  shadow  of  a  mountain  as  in  more 
classical  shades.  Some  will  remember,  no  doubt,  not  only 
that  they  went  to  the  college,  but  that  they  went  to  the 
mountain.  Every  visit  to  its  summit  would,  as  it  were, 
generalize  the  particular  information  gained  below,  and  sub- 
ject it  to  more  catholic  tests. 

I  was  up  early  and  perched  upon  the  top  of  this  tower  to 
see  the  daybreak,  for  some  time  reading  the  names  that  had 
been  engraved  there  before  I  could  distinguish  more  distant 
objects.  An  "untamable  fly"  buzzed  at  my  elbow  with  the 
same  nonchalance  as  on  a  molasses  hogshead  at  the  end  of 
Long  Wharf.  Even  there  I  must  attend  to  his  stale  hum- 
drum. But  now  I  come  to  the  pith  of  this  long  digression.  — 
As  the  light  increased  I  discovered  around  me  an  ocean  of 
mist,  which  reached  up  by  chance  exactly  to  the  base  of  the 
tower,  and  shut  out  every  vestige  of  the  earth,  while  I  was 
left  floating  on  this  fragment  of  the  wreck  of  a  world,  on  my 
carved  plank  in  cloudland;  a  situation  which  required  no 
aid  from  the  imagination  to  render  it  impressive.  As  the 
light  in  the  east  steadily  increased,  it  revealed  to  me  more 
clearly  the  new  world  into  which  I  had  risen  in  the  night, 
the  new  terra-firma  perchance  of  my  future  life.  There  was 
not  a  crevice  left  through  which  the  trivial  places  we  name 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  137 

Massachusetts,  or  Vermont,  or  New  York,  could  be  seen, 
while  I  still  inhaled  the  clear  atmosphere  of  a  July  morning 
—  if  it  were  July  there.  All  around  beneath  me  was  spread 
for  a  hundred  miles  on  every  side,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  an  undulating  country  of  clouds,  answering  in  the 
varied  swell  of  its  surface  to  the  terrestrial  world  it  veiled. 
It  was  such  a  country  as  we  might  see  in  dreams,  with  all 
the  delights  of  paradise.  There  were  immense  snowy  pas- 
tures apparently  smooth-shaven  and  firm,  and  shady  vales 
between  the  vaporous  mountains,  and  far  in  the  horizon  I 
could  see  where  some  luxurious  misty  timber  jutted  into 
the  prairie,  and  trace  the  windings  of  a  water  course,  some 
unimagined  Amazon  or  Orinoko,  by  the  misty  trees  on  its 
brink.  As  there  was  wanting  the  symbol,  so  there  was  not 
the  substance  of  impurity,  no  spot  nor  stain.  It  was  a  favor 
for  which  to  be  forever  silent  to  be  shown  this  vision.  The 
earth  beneath  had  become  such  a  flitting  thing  of  lights  and 
shadows  as  the  clouds  had  been  before.  It  was  not  merely 
veiled  to  me,  but  it  had  passed  away  like  the  phantom  of  a 
shadow,  o-Kias  ovap,  and  this  new  platform  was  gained.  As 
I  had  climbed  above  storm  and  cloud,  so  by  successive  days' 
journeys  I  might  reach  the  region  of  eternal  day  beyond  the 
tapering  shadow  of  the  earth ;  aye, 

"Heaven  itself  shall  slide 
And  roll  away,  like  melting  stars  that  glide 
Along  their  oily  threads." 

But  when  its  own  sun  began  to  rise  on  this  pure  world,  I 
found  myself  a  dweller  in  the  dazzling  halls  of  Aurora,  into 
which  poets  have  had  but  a  partial  glance  over  the  eastern 
hills,  —  drifting  amid  the  saffron-colored  clouds,  and  playing 
with  the  rosy  fingers  of  the  Dawn,  in  the  very  path  of  the 
Sun's  chariot,  and  sprinkled  with  its  dewy  dust,  enjoying 
the  benignant  smile,  and  near  at  hand  the  far-darting  glances 
of  the  god.  The  inhabitants  of  earth  behold  commonly  but 
the  dark  and  shadowy  under-side  of  heaven's  pavement; 
it  is  only  when  seen  at  a  favorable  angle  in  the  horizon 
morning  or  evening,  that  some  faint  streaks  of  the  rich  lining 
of  the  clouds  are  revealed.  But  my  muse  would  fail  to  con- 
vey an  impression  of  the  gorgeous  tapestry  by  which  I  was 
surrounded,  such  as  men  see  faintly  reflected  afar  off  in  the 
chambers  of  the  east.    Here,  as  on  earth,  I  saw  the  gracious  god 


138  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

"  Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye,  .... 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy." 

But  never  here  did  "  Heaven's  sun  "  stain  himself. 
But  alas,  owing  as  I  think  to  some  unworthiness  in  myself, 
my  private  sun  did  stain  himself,  and 

"Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  wrack  on  his  celestial  face/'  — 

for  before  the  god  had  reached  the  zenith  the  heavenly  pave- 
ment rose  and  embraced  my  wavering  virtue,  or  rather  I 
sank  down  again  into  that  "forlorn  world,"  from  which  the 
celestial  Sun  had  hid  his  visage.  — 

"How  may  a  worm,  that  crawls  along  the  dust, 
Clamber  the  azure  mountains,  thrown  so  high, 
And  fetch  from  thence  thy  fair  idea  just, 
That  in  those  sunny  courts  doth  hidden  he, 
Cloth'd  with  such  light,  as  blinds  the  angel's  eye? 
How  may  weak  mortal  ever  hope  to  file 
His  unsmooth  tongue,  and  his  deprostrate  style? 
O,  raise  thou  from  his  corse  thy  now  entombed  exile !" 

In  the  preceding  evening  I  had  seen  the  summits  of  new 
and  yet  higher  mountains,  the  Catskills,  by  which  I  might 
hope  to  climb  to  heaven  again,  and  had  set  my  compass  for  a 
fair  lake  in  the  south-west,  which  lay  in  my  way,  for  which 
I  now  steered,  descending  the  mountain  by  my  own  route, 
on  the  side  opposite  to  that  by  which  I  had  ascended,  and 
soon  found  myself  in  the  region  of  cloud  and  drizzling  rain, 
and  the  inhabitants  affirmed  that  it  had  been  a  cloudy  and 
drizzling  day  wholly. 

But  now  we  must  make  haste  back  before  the  fog  disperses 
to  the  blithe  Merrimack  water.  — 

Since  that  first  "away !  away !" 

Many  a  lengthy  reach  we've  rowed, 

Still  the  sparrow  on  the  spray 

Hastes  to  usher  in  the  day 

With  her  simple  stanza'd  ode. 

We  passed  a  canal  boat  before  sunrise,  groping  its  way  to 
the  seaboard,  and  though  we  could  not  see  it  on  account  of 
the  fog,  the  few  dull,  thumping,  stertorous  sounds  which  we 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  139 

heard,  impressed  us  with  a  sense  of  weight  and  irresistible 
motion.  One  little  rill  of  commerce  already  awake  on  this 
distant  New  Hampshire  river.  The  fog,  as  it  required  more 
skill  in  the  steering,  enhanced  the  interest  of  our  early  voyage, 
and  made  the  river  seem  indefinitely  broad.  A  slight  mist, 
through  which  objects  are  faintly  visible,  has  the  effect  of 
expanding  even  ordinary  streams,  by  a  singular  mirage,  into 
arms  of  the  sea  or  inland  lakes.  In  the  present  instance  it 
was  even  fragrant  and  invigorating,  and  we  enjoyed  it  as  a 
sort  of  earlier  sunshine,  or  dewy  and  embryo  light. 

Low-anchored  cloud, 

Newfoundland  air, 

Fountain-head  and  source  of  rivers, 

Dew  cloth,  dream  drapery, 

And  napkin  spread  by  fays ; 

Drifting  meadow  of  the  air, 

Where  bloom  the  daisied  banks  and  violets, 

And  in  whose  fenny  labyrinth 

The  bittern  booms  and  heron  wades ; 

Spirit  of  lakes  and  seas  and  rivers, 

Bear  only  perfumes  and  the  scent 

Of  healing  herbs  to  just  men's  fields. 

The  same  pleasant  and  observant  historian  whom  we 
quoted  above  says,  that  "In  the  mountainous  parts  of  the 
country,  the  ascent  of  vapors,  and  their  formation  into  clouds, 
is  a  curious  and  entertaining  object.  The  vapors  are  seen 
rising  in  small  columns  like  smoke  from  many  chimneys. 
When  risen  to  a  certain  height,  they  spread,  meet,  condense, 
and  are  attracted  to  the  mountains,  where  they  either  distil 
in  gentle  dews,  and  replenish  the  springs,  or  descend  in 
showers,  accompanied  with  thunder.  After  short  inter- 
missions, the  process  is  repeated  many  times  in  the  course 
of  a  summer  day,  affording  to  travellers  a  lively  illustration 
of  what  is  observed  in  the  book  of  Job,  'They  are  wet  with 
the  showers  of  the  mountains.' " 

Fogs  and  clouds  which  conceal  the  overshadowing  moun- 
tains lend  the  breath  of  the  plains  to  mountain  vales.  Even 
a  small  featured  country  acquires  some  grandeur  in  stormy 
weather,  when  clouds  are  seen  drifting  between  the  beholder 
and  the  neighboring  hills.  When  in  travelling  toward 
Haverhill  through  Hampstead  in  this  State,  on  the  height  of 
land  between  the  Merrimack  and  the  Piscataqua  or  the  sea, 


140  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

you  commence  the  descent  eastward,  the  view  toward  the 
coast  is  so  distant  and  unexpected,  though  the  sea  is  in- 
visible, that  you  at  first  suppose  the  unobstructed  atmosphere 
to  be  a  fog  in  the  lowlands  concealing  hills  of  corresponding 
elevation  to  that  you  are  upon ;  but  it  is  the  mist  of  prejudice 
alone,  which  the  winds  will  not  disperse.  The  most  stu- 
pendous scenery  ceases  to  be  sublime  when  it  becomes  distinct, 
or  in  other  words  limited,  and  the  imagination  is  no  longer 
encouraged  to  exaggerate  it.  The  actual  height  and  breadth 
of  a  mountain  or  a  water-fall  are  always  ridiculously  small ; 
they  are  the  imagined  only  that  content  us.  Nature  is  not 
made  after  such  a  fashion  as  we  would  have  her.  We  piously 
exaggerate  her  wonders  as  the  scenery  around  our  home. 

Such  was  the  heaviness  of  the  dews  along  this  river,  that 
we  were  generally  obliged  to  leave  our  tent  spread  over  the 
bows  of  the  boat  till  the  sun  had  dried  it,  to  avoid  mildew. 
We  passed  the  mouth  of  Penichook  Brook,  a  wild  salmon 
stream,  in  the  fog  without  seeing  it.  At  length  the  sun's 
rays  struggled  through  the  mist  and  showed  us  the  pines 
on  shore  dripping  with  dew,  and  springs  trickling  from  the 
moist  banks,  — 

"And  now  the  taller  sons,  whom  Titan  warms, 
Of  unshorn  mountains  blown  with  easy  winds, 
Dandle  the  morning's  childhood  in  their  arms, 
And  if  they  chanced  to  slip  the  prouder  pines 
The  under  corylets  did  catch  their  shines, 
To  gild  their  leaves." 

We  rowed  for  some  hours  between  glistening  banks  before 
the  sun  had  dried  the  grass  and  leaves,  or  the  day  had  estab- 
lished its  character.  Its  serenity  at  last  seemed  the  more 
profound  and  secure  for  the  denseness  of  the  morning's  fog. 
The  river  became  swifter,  and  the  scenery  more  pleasing 
than  before.  The  banks  were  steep  and  clayey  for  the  most 
part,  and  trickling  with  water,  and  where  a  spring  oozed 
out  a  few  feet  above  the  river,  the  boatmen  had  cut  a  trough 
out  of  a  slab  with  their  axes,  and  placed  it  so  as  to  receive  the 
water  and  fill  their  jugs  conveniently.  Sometimes  this  purer 
and  cooler  water,  bursting  out  from  under  a  pine  or  a  rock, 
was  collected  into  a  basin  close  to  the  edge  of,  and  level  with 
the  river,  a  fountain-head  of  the  Merrimack.  So  near  along 
life's  stream  are  the  fountains  of  innocence  and  youth  making 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  141 

fertile  its  sandy  margin;  and  the  voyageur  will  do  well  to 
replenish  his  vessels  often  at  these  uncontaminated  sources. 
Some  youthful  spring,  perchance,  still  empties  with  tinkling 
music  into  the  oldest  river,  even  when  it  is  falling  into  the 
sea,  and  we  imagine  that  its  music  is  distinguished  by  the 
river  gods  from  the  general  lapse  of  the  stream,  and  falls 
sweeter  on  their  ears  in  proportion  as  it  is  nearer  to  the  ocean. 
As  the  evaporations  of  the  river  feed  thus  these  unsuspected 
springs  which  filter  through  its  banks,  so,  perchance,  our 
aspirations  fall  back  again  in  springs  on  the  margin  of  life's 
stream  to  refresh  and  purify  it.  The  yellow  and  tepid  river 
may  float  his  scow,  and  cheer  his  eye  with  its  reflections  and 
its  ripples,  but  the  boatman  quenches  his  thirst  at  this  small 
rill  alone.  It  is  this  purer  and  cooler  element  that  chiefly 
sustains  his  life.  The  race  will  long  survive  that  is  thus 
discreet. 

Our  course  this  morning  lay  between  the  territories  of 
Merrimack,  on  the  west,  and  Litchfield,  once  called  Brenton's 
Farm,  on  the  east,  which  townships  were  anciently  the 
Indian  Naticock.  Brenton  was  a  fur  trader  among  the 
Indians,  and  these  lands  were  granted  to  him  in  1656.  The 
latter  township  contains  about  five  hundred  inhabitants,  of 
whom,  however,  we  saw  none,  and  but  few  of  their  dwell- 
ings. Being  on  the  river,  whose  banks  are  always  high  and 
generally  conceal  the  few  houses,  the  country  appeared  much 
more  wild  and  primitive  than  to  the  traveller  on  the  neigh- 
boring roads.  The  river  is  by  far  the  most  attractive  high- 
way, and  those  boatmen  who  have  spent  twenty  or  twenty- 
five  years  on  it,  must  have  had  a  much  fairer,  more  wild 
and  memorable  experience  than  the  dusty  and  jarring  one 
of  the  teamster,  who  has  driven,  during  the  same  time,  on 
the  roads  which  run  parallel  with  the  stream.  As  one  as- 
cends the  Merrimack,  he  rarely  sees  a  village,  but  for  the 
most  part,  alternate  wood  and  pasture  lands,  and  sometimes 
a  field  of  corn  or  potatoes,  of  rye  or  oats  or  English  grass,  with 
a  few  straggling  apple  trees,  and,  at  still  longer  intervals,  a 
farmer's  house.  The  soil,  excepting  the  best  of  the  interval, 
is  commonly  as  light  and  sandy  as  a  patriot  could  desire. 
Sometimes,  this  forenoon,  the  country  appeared  in  its  primi- 
tive state,  and  as  if  the  Indian  still  inhabited  it ;  and  again, 
as  if  many  free  new  settlers  occupied  it,  their  slight  fences 
straggling  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  the  barking  of  dogs, 


142  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

and  even  the  prattle  of  children,  were  heard,  and  smoke 
was  seen  to  go  up  from  some  hearthstone,  and  the  banks  were 
divided  into  patches  of  pasture,  mowing,  tillage,  and  wood- 
land. But  when  the  river  spread  out  broader,  with  an  unin- 
habited islet,  or  a  long  low  sandy  shore  which  ran  on  single 
and  devious,  not  answering  to  its  opposite,  but  far  off  as  if  it 
were  seashore  or  single  coast,  and  the  land  no  longer  nursed 
the  river  in  its  bosom,  but  they  conversed  as  equals,  the 
rustling  leaves  with  rippling  waves,  and  few  fences  were  seen, 
but  high  oak  woods  on  one  side,  and  large  herds  of  cattle, 
and  all  tracks  seemed  to  point  to  one  centre,  behind  some 
statelier  grove, — we  imagined  that  the  river  flowed  through 
an  extensive  manor,  and  that  the  few  inhabitants  were  re- 
tainers to  a  lord,  and  a  feudal  state  of  things  prevailed. 

When  there  was  a  suitable  reach,  we  caught  sight  of  the 
Goffstown  Mountain,  the  Indian  Uncannunuc,  rising  before 
us  on  the  west  side.  It  was  a  calm  and  beautiful  day,  with 
only  a  slight  zephyr  to  ripple  the  surface  of  the  water,  and 
rustle  the  woods  on  shore,  and  just  warmth  enough  to  prove 
the  kindly  disposition  of  Nature  to  her  children.  With 
buoyant  spirits  and  vigorous  impulses  we  tossed  our  boat 
rapidly  along  into  the  very  middle  of  this  forenoon.  The 
fish-hawk  sailed  and  screamed  overhead.  The  chipping, 
or  striped  squirrel,  sciurus  striatus,  sat  upon  the  end  of  some 
Virginia  fence  or  rider  reaching  over  the  stream,  twirling  a 
green  nut  with  one  paw,  as  in  a  lathe,  while  the  other  held  it 
fast  against  its  incisors  as  chisels.  Like  an  independent 
russet  leaf,  with  a  will  of  its  own,  rustling  whither  it  could ; 
now  under  the  fence,  now  over  it,  now  peeping  at  the  voy- 
ageurs  through  a  crack  with  only  its  tail  visible,  now  at  its 
lunch  deep  in  the  toothsome  kernel,  and  now  a  rod  off  playing 
at  hide-and-seek,  with  the  nut  stowed  away  in  its  chops,  where 
were  half  a  dozen  more  beside,  extending  its  cheeks  to  a 
ludicrous  breadth.  As  if  it  were  devising  through  what  safe 
valve  of  frisk  or  somerset  to  let  its  superfluous  life  escape; 
the  stream  passing  harmlessly  off,  even  while  it  sits,  in 
constant  electric  flashes  through  its  tail;  and  now  with  a 
chuckling  squeak  it  dives  into  the  root  of  a  hazel,  and  we 
see  no  more  of  it.  Or  the  larger  red  squirrel  or  chickaree, 
sometimes  called  the  Hudson  Bay  squirrel,  striurus  Hvd- 
sonius,  gave  warning  of  our  approach  by  that  peculiar  alarum 
of  his,  like  the  winding  up  of  some  strong  clock,  in  the  top 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  143 

of  a  pine  tree,  and  dodged  behind  its  stem,  or  leaped  from 
tree  to  tree,  with  such  caution  and  adroitness  as  if  much 
depended  on  the  fidelity  of  his  scout,  running  along  the  white 
pine  boughs  sometimes  twenty  rods  by  our  side,  with  such 
speed,  and  by  such  unerring  routes  as  if  it  were  some  well- 
worn  familiar  path  to  him;  and  presently,  when  we  have 
passed,  he  returns  to  his  work  of  cutting  off  the  pine  cones, 
and  letting  them  fall  to  the  ground. 

We  passed  Cromwell's  Falls,  the  first  we  met  with  on  this 
river,  this  forenoon,  by  means  of  locks,  without  using  our 
wheels.  These  falls  are  the  Nesenkeag  of  the  Indians. 
Great  Nesenkeag  Stream  comes  in  on  the  right  just  above, 
and  little  Nesenkeag  some  distance  below,  both  in  Litch- 
field. We  read  in  the  gazetteer,  under  the  head  of  Merrimack, 
that  "The  first  house  in  this  town  was  erected  on  the  margin 
of  the  river  [soon  after  1665]  for  a  house  of  traffic  with  the 
Indians.  For  some  time  one  Cromwell  carried  on  a  lucrative 
trade  with  them,  weighing  their  furs  with  his  foot,  till,  en- 
raged at  his  supposed  or  real  deception,  they  formed  the 
resolution  to  murder  him.  This  intention  being  communi- 
cated to  Cromwell,  he  buried  his  wealth  and  made  his  escape. 
Within  a  few  hours  after  his  flight,  a  party  of  the  Penacock 
tribe  arrived,  and  not  finding  the  object  of  their  resentment, 
burnt  his  habitation."  Upon  the  top  of  the  high  bank  here, 
close  to  the  river,  was  still  to  be  seen  his  cellar,  now  over- 
grown with  trees.  It  was  a  convenient  spot  for  such  a  traffic, 
at  the  foot  of  the  first  falls  above  the  settlements,  and  com- 
manding a  pleasant  view  up  the  river,  where  he  could  see  the 
Indians  coming  down  with  their  furs.  The  lock-man  told 
us  that  his  shovel  and  tongs  had  been  plowed  up  here,  and 
also  a  stone  with  his  name  on  it.  But  we  will  not  vouch  for 
the  truth  of  this  story.  These  were  the  traces  of  the  white 
trader.  On  the  opposite  bank,  where  it  jutted  over  the  stream 
cape-wise,  we  picked  up  four  arrow-heads  and  a  small  Indian 
tool  made  of  stone,  as  soon  as  we  had  climbed  it,  where 
plainly  there  had  once  stood  a  wigwam  of  the  Indians  with 
whom  Cromwell  traded,  and  who  fished  and  hunted  here 
before  he  came. 

As  usual  the  gossips  have  not  been  silent  respecting  Crom- 
well's buried  wealth,  and  it  is  said  that  some  years  ago  a 
farmer's  plow,  not  far  from  here,  slid  over  a  flat  stone  which 
emitted  a  hollow  sound,  and  on  its  being  raised  a  sum  of 


144  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

money  was  found.  The  lock-man  told  us  another  similar 
story  about  a  farmer  in  a  neighboring  town,  who  had  been  a 
poor  man,  but  who  suddenly  bought  a  good  farm,  and  was 
well  to  do  in  the  world;  and,  when  he  was  questioned,  did 
not  give  a  satisfactory  account  of  the  matter ;  —  how  few 
alas,  could!  This  caused  his  hired  man  to  remember,  that 
one  day  as  they  were  plowing  together  the  plow  struck  some- 
thing, and  his  employer  going  back  to  look,  concluded  not 
to  go  round  again,  saying  that  the  sky  looked  rather  louring, 
and  so  put  up  his  team.  The  like  urgency  has  caused  many 
things  to  be  remembered  which  never  transpired.  The  truth 
is,  there  is  money  buried  everywhere,  and  you  have  only  to 
go  to  work  to  find  it. 

Not  far  from  these  falls  stands  an  oak  tree  on  the  interval, 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  river,  on  the  farm  of  a  Mr. 
Lund,  which  was  pointed  out  to  us  as  the  spot  where  French, 
the  leader  of  the  party  which  went  in  pursuit  of  the  Indians 
from  Dunstable,  was  killed.  Farwell  dodged  them  in  the 
thick  woods  near.  It  did  not  look  as  if  men  had  ever  had  to 
run  for  their  lives  on  this  now  open  and  peaceful  interval. 

Here  too  was  another  extensive  desert  by  the  side  of  the 
road  in  Litchfield,  visible  from  the  bank  of  the  river.  The 
sand  was  blown  off  in  some  places  to  the  depth  of  ten  or 
twelve  feet,  leaving  small  grotesque  hillocks  of  that  height 
where  there  was  a  clump  of  bushes  firmly  rooted.  Thirty 
or  forty  years  ago,  as  we  were  told,  it  was  a  sheep  pasture, 
but  the  sheep  being  worried  by  the  fleas,  began  to  paw  the 
ground,  till  they  broke  the  sod,  and  so  the  sand  began  to 
blow,  till  now  it  had  extended  over  forty  or  fifty  acres.  This 
evil  might  easily  have  been  remedied  at  first,  by  spreading 
birches  with  their  leaves  on  over  the  sand,  and  fastening 
them  down  with  stakes,  to  break  the  wind.  The  flies  bit 
the  sheep,  and  the  sheep  bit  the  ground,  and  the  sore  had 
spread  to  this  extent.  It  is  astonishing  what  a  great  sore  a 
little  scratch  breedeth.  Who  knows  but  Sahara,  where 
caravans  and  cities  are  buried,  began  with  the  bite  of  an 
African  flea.  This  poor  globe,  how  it  must  itch  in  many 
places!  Will  no  god  be  kind  enough  to  spread  a  salve  of 
birches  over  its  sores  ?  —  Here  too  we  noticed  where  the 
Indians  had  gathered  a  hea^p  of  stones,  perhaps  for  their 
council  fire,  which  by  their  weight  having  prevented  the 
sand  under  them  from  blowing  away,  were  left  on  the  sum- 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  145 

mit  of  a  mound.  They  told  us  that  arrow-heads,  and  also 
bullets  of  lead  and  iron,  had  been  found  here.  We  noticed 
several  other  sandy  tracts  in  our  voyage ;  and  the  course  of 
the  Merrimack  can  be  traced  from  the  nearest  mountain  by 
its  yellow  sandbanks,  though  the  river  itself  is  for  the  most 
part  invisible.  Lawsuits,  as  we  hear,  have  in  some  cases 
grown  out  of  these  causes.  Railroads  have  been  made  through 
certain  irritable  districts,  breaking  their  sod,  and  so  have  set 
the  sand  to  blowing,  till  it  has  converted  fertile  farms  into 
deserts,  and  the  Company  has  had  to  pay  the  damages. 

This  sand  seemed  to  us  the  connecting  link  between  land 
and  water.  It  was  a  kind  of  water  on  which  you  could  walk, 
and  you  could  see  the  ripple  marks  on  its  surface,  produced 
by  the  winds,  precisely  like  those  at  the  bottom  of  a  brook 
or  lake.  We  had  read  that  Mussulmans  are  permitted  by 
the  Koran  to  perform  their  ablutions  in  sand  when  they  cannot 
get  water,  a  necessary  indulgence  in  Arabia,  and  we  now 
understood  the  propriety  of  this  provision. 

Plum  Island,  at  the  mouth  of  this  river,  to  whose  forma- 
tion, perhaps,  these  very  banks  have  sent  their  contribution, 
is  a  similar  desert  of  drifting  sand,  of  various  colors,  blown 
into  graceful  curves  by  the  wind.  It  is  a  mere  sandbar 
exposed,  stretching  nine  miles  parallel  to  the  coast,  and,  ex- 
clusive of  the  marsh  on  the  inside,  rarely  more  than  half  a 
mile  wide.  There  are  but  half  a  dozen  houses  on  it,  and  it 
is  almost  without  a  tree,  or  a  sod,  or  any  green  thing  with 
which  a  countryman  is  familiar.  The  thin  vegetation  stands 
half  buried  in  sand,  as  in  drifting  snow.  The  only  shrub,  the 
beach  plum,  which  gives  the  island  its  name,  grows  but  a 
few  feet  high ;  but  this  is  so  abundant  that  parties  of  a  hun- 
dred at  once  come  from  the  main  land  and  down  the  Merri- 
mack in  September,  and  pitch  their  tents,  and  gather  the 
plums,  which  are  good  to  eat  raw  and  to  preserve.  The 
graceful  and  delicate  beach  pea  too  grows  abundantly  amid 
the  sand ;  and  several  strange  moss-like  and  succulent  plants. 
The  island  for  its  whole  length  is  scolloped  into  low  hills,  not 
more  than  twenty  feet  high,  by  the  wind,  and  excepting  a 
faint  trail  on  the  edge  of  the  marsh,  is  as  trackless  as  Sahara. 
There  are  dreary  bluffs  of  sand  and  valleys  plowed  by  the 
wind,  where  you  might  expect  to  discover  the  bones  of  a 
caravan.    Schooners  come  from  Boston  to  load  with  the  sand 


146  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

for  masons'  uses,  and  in  a  few  hours  the  wind  obliterates  all 
traces  of  their  work.  Yet  you  have  only  to  dig  a  foot  or 
two  anywhere  to  come  to  fresh  water ;  and  you  are  surprised 
to  learn  that  woodchucks  abound  here,  and  foxes  are  found, 
though  you  see  not  where  they  can  burrow  or  hide  them- 
selves. I  have  walked  down  the  whole  length  of  its  broad 
beach  at  low  tide,  at  which  time  alone  you  can  find  a  firm 
ground  to  walk  on,  and  probably  Massachusetts  does  not 
furnish  a  more  grand  and  dreary  walk.  On  the  sea  side  there 
are  only  a  distant  sail  and  a  few  coots  to  break  the  grand 
monotony.  A  solitary  stake  stuck  up,  or  a  sharper  sand-hill 
than  usual,  is  remarkable  as  a  land-mark  for  miles;  while 
for  music  you  hear  only  the  ceaseless  sound  of  the  surf,  and 
the  dreary  peep  of  the  beach  birds. 

There  were  several  canal  boats  at  CromwelPs  Falls,  passing 
through  the  locks,  for  which  we  waited.  In  the  forward  part 
of  one  stood  a  brawny  New  Hampshire  man,  leaning  on  his 
pole,  bareheaded  and  in  shirt  and  trousers  only,  a  rude 
Apollo  of  a  man,  coming  down  from  that  "vast  uplandish 
country"  to  the  main;  of  nameless  age,  with  flaxen  hair, 
and  vigorous,  weather-bleached  countenance,  in  whose 
wrinkles  the  sun  still  lodged,  as  little  touched  by  the  heats 
and  frosts  and  withering  cares  of  life,  as  a  mountain  maple ; 
an  undressed,  unkempt,  uncivil  man,  with  whom  we  parleyed 
a  while,  and  parted  not  without  a  sincere  interest  in  one 
another.  His  humanity  was  genuine  and  instinctive,  and 
his  rudeness  only  a  manner.  He  inquired,  just  as  we  were 
passing  out  of  earshot,  if  we  had  killed  anything,  and  we 
shouted  after  him  that  we  had  shot  a  buoy,  and  could  see  him 
for  a  long  while  scratching  his  head  in  vain,  to  know  if  he 
had  heard  aright. 

There  is  reason  in  the  distinction  of  civil  and  uncivil. 
The  manners  are  sometimes  so  rough  a  rind,  that  we  doubt 
whether  they  cover  any  core  or  sapwood  at  all.  We  some- 
times meet  uncivil  men,  children  of  Amazons,  who  dwell 
by  mountain  paths,  and  are  said  to  be  inhospitable  to 
strangers ;  whose  salutation  is  as  rude  as  the  grasp  of  their 
brawny  hands,  and  who  deal  with  men  as  unceremoniously 
as  they  are  wont  to  deal  with  the  elements.  They  need  only 
to  extend  their  clearings,  and  let  in  more  sunlight,  to  seek 
out  the  southern  slopes  of  the  hills,  from  which  they  may 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  147 

look  down  on  the  civil  plain  or  ocean,  and  temper  their 
diet  duly  with  the  cereal  fruits,  consuming  less  wild  meat 
and  acorns,  to  become  like  the  inhabitants  of  cities.  A  true 
politeness  does  not  result  from  any  hasty  and  artificial 
polishing,  it  is  true,  but  grows  naturally  in' characters  of  the 
right  grain  and  quality,  through  a  long  fronting  of  men  and 
events,  and'  rubbing  on  good  and  bad  fortune.  Perhaps  I 
can  tell  a  tale  to  the  purpose  while  the  lock  is  filling,  —  for 
our  voyage  this  forenoon  furnishes  but  few  incidents  of  im- 
portance. 

Early  one  summer  morning  I  had  left  the  shores  of  the 
Connecticut,  and  for  the  livelong  day  travelled  up  the  bank 
of  a  river,  which  came  in  from  the  west ;  now  looking  down 
on  the  stream,  foaming  and  rippling  through  the  forest  a 
mile  off,  from  the  hills  over  which  the  road  led,  and  now 
sitting  on  its  rocky  brink  and  dipping  my  feet  in  its  rapids, 
or  bathing  adventurously  in  mid-channel.  The  hills  grew 
more  and  more  frequent,  and  gradually  swelled  into  mountains 
as  I  advanced,  hemming  in  the  course  of  the  river,  so  that  at 
last  I  could  not  see  where  it  came  from,  and  was  at  liberty 
to  imagine  the  most  wonderful  meanderings  and  descents. 
At  noon  I  slept  on  the  grass  in  the  shade  of  a  maple,  where 
the  river  had  found  a  broader  channel  than  usual,  and  was 
spread  out  shallow,  with  frequent  sand-bars  exposed.  In 
the  names  of  the  towns  I  recognized  some  which  I  had  long 
ago  read  on  teamsters'  wagons,  that  had  come  from  far  up 
country;  quiet,  uplandish  towns,  of  mountainous  fame.  I 
walked  along  musing,  and  enchanted  by  rows  of  sugar-maples, 
through  the  small  and  uninquisitive  villages,  and  sometimes 
was  pleased  with  the  sight  of  a  boat  drawn  up  on  a  sand-bar, 
where  there  appeared  no  inhabitants  to  use  it.  It  seemed, 
however,  as  essential  to  the  river  as  a  fish,  and  to  lend  a 
certain  dignity  to  it.  It  was  like  the  trout  of  mountain 
streams  to  the  fishes  of  the  sea,  or  like  the  young  of  the  land 
crab  born  far  in  the  interior,  who  have  never  yet  heard  the 
sound  of  the  ocean's  surf.  The  hills  approached  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  stream,  until  at  last  they  closed  behind  me, 
and  I  found  myself,  just  before  night-fall,  in  a  romantic  and 
retired  valley,  about  half  a  mile  in  length,  and  barely  wide 
enough  for  the  stream  at  its  bottom.  I  thought  that  there 
could  be  no  finer  site  for  a  cottage  among  mountains.    You 


148  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

could  anywhere  run  across  the  stream  on  the  rocks,  and  its 
constant  murmuring  would  quiet  the  passions  of  mankind 
forever.  Suddenly  the  road,  which  seemed  aiming  for  the 
mountain  side,  turned  short  to  the  left,  and  another  valley 
opened,  concealing  the  former,  and  of  the  same  character 
with  it.  It  was  the  most  remarkable  and  pleasing  scenery 
I  had  ever  seen.  I  found  here  a  few  mild  and  hospitable 
inhabitants,  who,  as  the  day  was  not  quite  spent,  and  I 
was  anxious  to  improve  the  light,  directed  me  four  or  five 
miles  further  on  my  way  to  the  dwelling  of  a  man  whose 
name  was  Rice,  who  occupied  the  last  and  highest  of  the 
valleys  that  lay  in  my  path,  and  who,  they  said,  was  a  rather 
rude  and  uncivil  man.  But,  "What  is  a  foreign  country  to 
those  who  have  science?  Who  is  a  stranger  to  those  who 
have  the  habit  of  speaking  kindly?" 

At  length,  as  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the  mountains 
in  a  still  darker  and  more  solitary  vale,  I  reached  the  dwelling 
of  this  man.  Except  for  the  narrowness  of  the  plain,  and 
that  the  stones  were  solid  granite,  it  was  the  counterpart  of 
that  retreat  to  which  Belphcebe  bore  the  wounded  Timias ;  — 

"in  a  pleasant  glade, 
With  mountains  round  about  environed, 
And  mighty  woods,  which  did  the  valley  shade, 
And  like  a  stately  theatre  it  made, 
Spreading  itself  into  a  spacious  plain ; 
And  in  the  midst  a  little  river  played 
Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seemed  to  plain, 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain." 

I  observed,  as  I  drew  near,  that  he  was  not  so  rude  as  I 
had  anticipated,  for  he  kept  many  cattle,  and  dogs  to  watch 
them,  and  I  saw  where  he  had  made  maple  sugar  on  the  sides 
of  the  mountains,  and  above  all  distinguished  the  voices  of 
children  mingling  with  the  murmur  of  the  torrent  before  the 
door.  As  I  passed  his  stable  J  met  one  whom  I  supposed  to 
be  a  hired  man,  attending  to  his  cattle,  and  inquired  if  they 
entertained  travellers  at  that  house.  "Sometimes  we  do," 
he  answered,  gruffly,  and  immediately  went  to  the  farthest 
stall  from  me,  and  I  perceived  that  it  was  Rice  himself  whom 
I  had  addressed.  But  pardoning  this  incivility  to  the  wild- 
ness  of  the  scenery,  I  bent  my  steps  to  the  house.  There 
was  no  sign-post  before  it,  nor  any  of  the  usual  invitations 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  149 

to  the  traveller,  though  I  saw  by  the  road  that  many  went 
and  came  there,  but  the  owner's  name  only  was  fastened  to 
the  outside,  a  sort  of  implied  and  sullen  invitation,  as  I 
thought.  I  passed  from  room  to  room  without  meeting  any 
one,  till  I  came  to  what  seemed  the  guests'  apartment,  which 
was  neat,  and  even  had  an  air  of  refinement  about  it,  and  I 
was  glad  to  find  a  map  against  the  wall  which  would  direct 
me  on  my  journey  on  the  morrow.  At  length  I  heard  a  step 
in  a  distant  apartment,  which  was  the  first  I  had  entered, 
and  went  to  see  if  the  landlord  had  come  in ;  but  it  proved 
to  be  only  a  child,  one  of  those  whose  voices  I  had  heard, 
probably  his  son,  and  between  him  and  me  stood  in  the  door- 
way a  large  watch-dog,  which  growled  at  me,  and  looked  as 
if  he  would  presently  spring,  but  the  boy  did  not  speak  to 
him ;  and  when  I  asked  for  a  glass  of  water,  he  briefly  said, 
"It  runs  in  the  corner."  So  I  took  a  mug  from  the  counter 
and  went  out  of  doors,  and  searched  round  the  corner  of  the 
house,  but  could  find  neither  well  nor  spring,  nor  any  water 
but  the  stream  which  ran  all  along  the  front.  I  came  back, 
therefore,  and  setting  down  the  mug,  asked  the  child  if  the 
stream  was  good  to  drink ;  whereupon  he  seized  the  mug  and 
going  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  where  a  cool  spring  which 
issued  from  the  mountain  behind  trickled  through  a  pipe 
into  the  apartment,  filled  it,  and  drank  and  gave  it  to  me 
empty  again,  and  calling  to  the  dog,  rushed  out  of  doors. 
Ere  long  some  of  the  hired  men  made  their  appearance,  and 
drank  at  the  spring,  and  lazily  washed  themselves  and 
combed  their  hair  in  silence,  and  some  sat  down  as  if  weary, 
and  fell  asleep  in  their  seats.  But  all  the  while  I  saw  no 
women,  though  I  sometimes  heard  a  bustle  in  that  part  of 
the  house  from  which  the  spring  came. 

At  length  Rice  himself  came  in,  for  it  was  now  dark,  with 
an  ox  whip  in  his  hand,  breathing  hard,  and  he  too  soon 
settled  down  into  his  seat  not  far  from  me,  as  if  now  that  his 
day's  work  was  done  he  had  no  further  to  travel,  but  only  to 
digest  his  supper  at  his  leisure.  When  I  asked  him  if  he 
could  give  me  a  bed,  he  said  there  was  one  ready,  in  such  a 
tone  as  implied  that  I  ought  to  have  known  it,  and  the  less 
said  about  that  the  better.  So  far  so  good.  And  yet  he 
continued  to  look  at  me  as  if  he  would  fain  have  me  say  some- 
thing further  like  a  traveller.  I  remarked,  that  it  was  a  wild 
and  rugged  country  he  inhabited,  and  worth  coming  many 


150  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

miles  to  see.  "Not  so  very  rough  neither,"  said  he,  and 
appealed  to  his  men  to  bear  witness  to  the  breadth  and 
smoothness  of  his  fields,  which  consisted  in  all  of  one  small 
interval,  and  to  the  size  of  his  crops ;  "and  if  we  have  some 
hills,"  added  he,  "there's  no  better  pasturage  anywhere." 
I  then  asked  if  this  place  was  the  one  I  had  heard  of,  calling 
it  by  a  name  I  had  seen  on  the  map,  or  if  it  was  a  certain 
other ;  and  he  answered,  gruffly,  that  it  was  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other ;  that  he  had  settled  it  and  cultivated  it,  and 
made  it  what  it  was,  and  I  could  know  nothing  about  it. 
Observing  some  guns  and  other  implements  of  hunting  hang- 
ing on  brackets  around  the  room,  and  his  hounds  now  sleep- 
ing on  the  floor,  I  took  occasion  to  change  the  discourse,  and 
inquired  if  there  was  much  game  in  that  country,  and  he 
answered  this  question  more  graciously,  having  some  glim- 
mering of  my  drift ;  but  when  I  inquired  if  there  were  any 
bears,  he  answered  impatiently,  that  he  was  no  more  in 
danger  of  losing  his  sheep  than  his  neighbors,  he  had  tamed 
and  civilized  that  region.  After  a  pause,  thinking  of  my 
journey  on  the  morrow,  and  the  few  hours  of  daylight  in 
that  hollow  and  mountainous  country  which  would  require 
me  to  be  on  my  way  betimes,  I  remarked  that  the  day  must 
be  shorter  by  an  hour  there  than  on  the  neighboring  plains ; 
at  which  he  gruffly  asked  what  I  knew  about  it,  and  affirmed 
that  he  had  as  much  daylight  as  his  neighbors ;  he  ventured 
to  say  the  days  were  longer  there  than  where  I  lived,  as  I 
should  find  if  I  stayed;  that  in  some  way,  I  could  not  be 
expected  to  understand  how/ the  sun  came  over  the  mountains 
half  an  hour  earlier,  and  stayed  half  an  hour  later  there  than 
on  the  neighboring  plains.  —  And  more  of  like  sort  he  said. 
He  was,  indeed,  as  rude  as  a  fabled  satyr.  But  I  suffered 
him  to  pass  for  what  he  was,  for  why  should  I  quarrel  with 
nature?  and  was  even  pleased  at  the  discovery  of  such  a 
singular  natural  phenomenon.  I  dealt  with  him  as  if  to  me 
all  manners  were  indifferent,  and  he  had  a  sweet  wild  way 
with  him.  I  would  not  question  Nature,  and  I  would  rather 
have  him  as  he  was,  than  as  I  would  have  him.  For  I  had 
come  up  here  not  for  sympathy,  or  kindness,  or  society, 
but  for  novelty  and  adventure,  and  to  see  what  Nature  had 
produced  here.  I  therefore  did  not  repel  his  rudeness,  but 
quite  innocently  welcomed  it  all,  and  knew  how  to  appreciate 
it,  as  if  I  were  reading  in  an  old  drama  a  part  well  sustained. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  151 

He  was  indeed  a  coarse  and  sensual  man,  and,  as  I  have  said, 
uncivil,  but  he  had  his  just  quarrel  with  nature  and  mankind, 
I  have  no  doubt,  only  he  had  no  artificial  covering  to  his  ill 
humors.  He  was  earthy  enough,  but  yet  there  was  good  soil 
in  him,  and  even  a  long-suffering  Saxon  probity  at  bottom. 
If  you  could  represent  the  case  to  him,  he  would  not  let  the 
race  die  out  in  him,  like  a  red  Indian. 

At  length  I  told  him  that  he  was  a  fortunate  man,  and  I 
trusted  that  he  was  grateful  for  so  much  light,  and  rising, 
said  I  would  take  a  lamp,  and  that  I  would  pay  him  then  for 
my  lodging,  for  I  expected  to  recommence  my  journey,  even 
as  early  as  the  sun  rose  in  his  country ;  but  he  answered  in 
haste,  and  this  time  civilly,  that  I  should  not  fail  to  find 
some  of  his  household  stirring,  however  early,  for  they  were 
no  sluggards,  and  I  could  take  my  breakfast  with  them  before 
I  started  if  I  chose ;  and  as  he  lighted  the  lamp  I  detected  a 
gleam  of  true  hospitality  and  ancient  civility,  a  beam  of  pure 
and  even  gentle  humanity  from  his  bleared  and  moist  eyes. 
It  was  a  look  more  intimate  with  me,  and  more  explanatory, 
than  any  words  of  his  could  have  been  if  he  had  tried  to  his 
dying  day.  It  was  more  significant  than  any  Rice  of  those 
parts  could  even  comprehend,  and  long  anticipated  this 
man's  culture,  —  a  glance  of  his  pure  genius,  which  did  not 
much  enlighten  him,  but  did  impress  and  rule  him  for  the 
moment,  and  faintly  constrain  his  voice  and  manner.  He 
cheerfully  led  the  way  to  my  apartment,  stepping  over  the 
limbs  of  his  men  who  were  asleep  on  the  floor  in  an  inter- 
vening chamber,  and  showed  me  a  clean  and  comfortable 
bed.  For  many  pleasant  hours,  after  the  household  was 
asleep,  I  sat  at  the  open  window,  for  it  was  a  sultry  night, 
and  heard  the  little  river 

"Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seemed  to  plain, 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain." 

But  I  arose  as  usual  by  starlight  the  next  morning,  before 
my  host,  or  his  men,  or  even  his  dogs,  were  awake ;  and 
having  left  a  ninepence  on  the  counter,  was  already  half 
way  over  the  mountain  with  the  sun,  before  they  had  broken 
their  fast. 

Before  I  had  left  the  country  of  my  host,  while  the  first 
rays  of  the  sun  slanted  over  the  mountains,  as  I  stopped  by 
the  wayside  to  gather  some  raspberries,  a  very  old  man,  not 


152  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

far  from  a  hundred,  came  along  with  a  milking  pail  in  his 
hand,  and  turning  aside  began  to  pluck  the  berries  near  me ;  — 

"his  reverend  locks 

In  comelye  curies  did  wave ; 
And  on  his  aged  temples  grew 

The  blossoms  of  the  grave." 

But  when  I  inquired  the  way,  he  answered  in  a  low,  rough 
voice,  without  looking  up  or  seeming  to  regard  my  presence, 
which  I  imputed  to  his  years ;  and  presently,  muttering  to 
himself,  he  proceeded  to  collect  his  cows  in  a  neighboring 
pasture ;  and  when  he  had  again  returned  near  to  the  way- 
side, he  suddenly  stopped,  while  his  cows  went  on  before, 
and,  uncovering  his  head,  prayed  aloud  in  the  cool  morning 
air,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  this  exercise  before,  for  his  daily 
bread,  and  also  that  He  who  letteth  his  rain  fall  on  the  just 
and  on  the  unjust,  and  without  whom  not  a  sparrow  falleth 
to  the  ground,  would  not  neglect  the  stranger  (meaning  me), 
and  with  even  more  direct  and  personal  applications,  though 
mainly  according  to  the  long  established  formula  common 
to  lowlanders  and  the  inhabitants  of  mountains.  When  he 
had  done  praying,  I  made  bold  to  ask  him  if  he  had  any 
cheese  in  his  hut  which  he  would  sell  me,  but  he  answered 
without  looking  up,  and  in  the  same  low  and  repulsive  voice 
as  before,  that  they  did  not  make  any,  and  went  to  milking. 
It  is  written,  "The  stranger  who  turneth  away  from  a  house 
with  disappointed  hopes,  leaveth  there  his  own  offences, 
and  departeth,  taking  with  him  all  the  good  actions  of  the 
owner." 

Being  now  fairly  in  the  stream  of  this  week's  commerce, 
we  began  to  meet  with  boats  more  frequently,  and  hailed 
them  from  time  to  time  with  the  freedom  of  sailors.  The 
boatmen  appeared  to  lead  an  easy  and  contented  life,  and 
we  thought  that  we  should  prefer  their  employment  ourselves 
to  many  professions  which  are  much  more  sought  after. 
They  suggested  how  few  circumstances  are  necessary  to  the 
well-being  and  serenity  of  man,  how  indifferent  all  employ- 
ments are,  and  that  any  may  seem  noble  and  poetic  to  the 
eyes  of  men,  if  pursued  with  sufficient  buoyancy  and  freedom. 
With  liberty  and  pleasant  weather,  the  simplest  occupation, 
any  unquestioned  country  mode  of  life  which  detains  us  in 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  153 

the  open  air,  is  alluring.  The  man  who  picks  peas  steadily 
for  a  living  is  more  than  respectable,  he  is  even  envied  by 
his  shop-worn  neighbors.  We  are  as  happy  as  the  birds  when 
our  Good  Genius  permits  us  to  pursue  any  outdoor  work 
without  a  sense  of  dissipation.  Our  pen-knife  glitters  in  the 
sun ;  our  voice  is  echoed  by  yonder  wood ;  if  an  oar  drops, 
we  are  fain  to  let  it  drop  again. 

The  canal  boat  is  of  very  simple  construction,  requiring 
but  little  ship  timber,  and,  as  we  were  told,  costs  about  two 
hundred  dollars.  They  are  managed  by  two  men.  In 
ascending  the  stream  they  use  poles  fourteen  or  fifteen  feet 
long,  shod  with  iron,  walking  about  one  third  the  length  of 
the  boat  from  the  forward  end.  Going  down,  they  com- 
monly keep  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  using  an  oar  at  each 
end ;  or  if  the  wind  is  favorable  they  raise  their  broad  sail, 
and  have  only  to  steer.  They  commonly  carry  down  bricks 
or  wood,  —  fifteen  or  sixteen  thousand  bricks,  and  as  many 
cords  of  wood,  at  a  time,  —  and  bring  back  stores  for  the 
country,  consuming  two  or  three  days  each  way  between 
Concord  and  Charlestown.  They  sometimes  pile  the  wood 
so  as  to  leave  a  shelter  in  one  part  where  they  may  retire 
from  the  rain.  One  can  hardly  imagine  a  more  healthful 
employment,  or  one  more  favorable  to  contemplation  and  the 
observation  of  nature.  Unlike  the  mariner,  they  have  the 
constantly  varying  panorama  of  the  shore  to  relieve  the 
monotony  of  their  labor,  and  it  seemed  to  us  that  as  they  thus 
glided  noiselessly  from  town  to  town,  with  all  their  furniture 
about  them,  for  their  very  homestead  is  a  movable,  they  could 
comment  on  the  character  of  the  inhabitants  with  greater 
advantage  and  security  to  themselves  than  the  traveller  in 
a  coach,  who  would  be  unable  to  indulge  in  such  broadsides 
of  wit  and  humor  in  so  small  a  vessel,  for  fear  of  the  recoil. 
They  are  not  subject  to  great  exposure,  like  the  lumberers 
of  Maine,  in  any  weather,  but  inhale  the  healthfullest  breezes, 
being  slightly  encumbered  with  clothing,  frequently  with 
the  head  and  feet  bare.  When  we  met  them  at  noon  as  they 
were  leisurely  descending  the  stream,  their  busy  commerce 
did  not  look  like  toil,  but  rather  like  some  ancient  oriental 
game  still  played  on  a  large  scale,  as  the  game  of  chess,  for 
instance,  handed  down  to  this  generation.  From  morning 
till  night,  unless  the  wind  is  so  fair  that  his  single  sail  will 
suffice  without  other  labor  than  steering,  the  boatman  walks 


154  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

backwards  and  forwards  on  the  side  of  his  boat,  now  stoop- 
ing with  his  shoulder  to  the  pole,  then  drawing  it  back  slowly 
to  set  it  again,  meanwhile  moving  steadily  forward  through 
an  endless  valley  and  an  ever-changing  scenery,  now  dis- 
tinguishing his  course  for  a  mile  or  two,  and  now  shut  in  by 
a  sudden  turn  of  the  river  in  a  small  woodland  lake.  All 
the  phenomena  which  surround  him  are  simple  and  grand, 
and  there  is  something  impressive,  even  majestic,  in  the  very 
motion  he  causes,  which  will  naturally  be  communicated  to 
his  own  character,  and  he  feels  the  slow  irresistible  movement 
under  him  with  pride,  as  if  it  were  his  own  energy. 

The  news  spread  like  wild  fire  among  us  youths,  when 
formerly,  once  in  a  year  or  two,  one  of  these  boats  came  up 
the  Concord  River,  and  was  seen  stealing  mysteriously 
through  the  meadows  and  past  the  village.  It  came  and 
departed  as  silently  as  a  cloud,  without  noise  or  dust,  and 
was  witnessed  by  few.  One  summer  day  this  huge  traveller 
might  be  seen  moored  at  some  meadow's  wharf,  and  another 
summer  day  it  was  not  there.  Where  precisely  it  came 
from,  or  who  these  men  were  who  knew  the  rocks  and  sound- 
ings better  than  we  who  bathed  there,  we  could  never  tell. 
We  knew  some  river's  bay  only,  but  they  took  rivers  from 
end  to  end.  They  were  a  sort  of  fabulous  river-men  to  us. 
It  was  inconceivable  by  what  sort  of  mediation  any  mere 
landsman  could  hold  communication  with  them.  Would 
they  heave  to  to  gratify  his  wishes  ?  No,  it  was  favor  enough 
to  know  faintly  of  their  destination,  or  the  time  of  their 
possible  return.  I  have  seen  them  in  the  summer,  when  the 
stream  ran  low,  mowing  the  weeds  in  mid-channel,  and  with 
havers'  jests  cutting  broad  swaths  in  three  feet  of  water, 
that  they  might  make  a  passage  for  their  scow,  while  the 
grass  in  long  windrows  was  c'arried  down  the  stream,  undried 
by  the  rarest  hay  weather.  We  used  to  admire  unweariedly 
how  their  vessel  would  float,  like  a  huge  chip,  sustaining  so 
many  casks  of  lime,  and  thousands  of  bricks,  and  such  heaps 
of  iron  ore,  with  wheel-barrows  aboard,  —  and  that  when 
we  stepped  on  it,  it  did  not  yield  to  the  pressure  of  our  feet. 
It  gave  us  confidence  in  the  prevalence  of  the  law  of  buoy- 
ancy, and  we  imagined  to  what  infinite  uses  it  might  be  put. 
The  men  appeared  to  lead  a  kind  of  life  on  it,  and  it  was 
whispered  that  they  slept  aboard.  Some  affirmed  that  it 
carried  sail,  and  that  such  winds  blew  here  as  filled  the  sails 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  155 

of  vessels  on  the  ocean ;  which  again  others  much  doubted. 
They  had  been  seen  to  sail  across  our  Fair-Haven  bay  by 
lucky  fishers  who  were  out,  but  unfortunately  others  were  not 
there  to  see.  We  might  then  say  that  our  river  was  navi- 
gable, —  why  not?  In  after  years  I  read  in  print,  with  no 
little  satisfaction,  that  it  was  thought  by  some  that  with  a 
little  expense  in  removing  rocks  and  deepening  the  channel, 
"there  might  be  a  profitable  inland  navigation."  /  then 
lived  somewhere  to  tell  of. 

Such  is  Commerce,  which  shakes  the  cocoanut  and  bread- 
fruit tree  in  the  remotest  isle,  and  sooner  or  later  dawns  on 
the  duskiest  and  most  simple-minded  savage.  If  we  may  be 
pardoned  the  digression,  —  who  can  help  being  affected  at  the 
thought  of  the  very  fine  and  slight,  but  positive  relation,  in 
which  the  savage  inhabitants  of  some  remote  isle  stand  to 
the  mysterious  white  mariner,  the  child  of  the  sun  ?  —  As 
if  we  were  to  have  dealings  with  an  animal  higher  in  the  scale 
of  being  than  ourselves.  It  is  a  barely  recognized  fact  to 
the  natives  that  he  exists,  and  has  his  home  far  away  some- 
where, and  is  glad  to  buy  their  fresh  fruits  with  his  super- 
fluous commodities.  Under  the  same  catholic  sun  glances 
his  white  ship  over  Pacific  waves  into  their  smooth  bays, 
and  the  poor  savage's  paddle  gleams  in  the  air. 

Man's  little  acts  are  grand, 
Beheld  from  land  to  land, 
There  as  they  lie  in  time, 
Within  their  native  clime. 

Ships  with  the  noon-tide  weigh, 

And  glide  before  its  ray, 

To  some  retired  bay, 

Their  haunt, 

Whence,  under  tropic  sun, 

Again  they  run, 

Bearing  gum  Senegal  and  Tragicant. 
For  this  was  ocean  meant, 
For  this  the  sun  was  sent, 
And  moon  was  lent, 
And  winds  in  distant  caverns  pent. 

Since  our  voyage  the  railroad  on  the  bank  has  been  ex- 
tended, and  there  is  now  but  little  boating  on  the  Merrimack. 
All  kinds  of  produce  and  stores  were  formerly  conveyed  by 
water,  but  now  nothing  is  carried  up  the  stream,  and  almost 


156  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

wood  and  bricks  alone  are  carried  down,  and  these  are  also 
carried  on  the  railroad.  The  locks  are  fast  wearing  out,  and 
will  soon  be  impassable,  since  the  tolls  will  not  pay  the  ex- 
pense of  repairing  them,  and  so  in  a  few  years  there  will  be 
an  end  of  boating  on  this  river.  The  boating,  at  present, 
is  principally  between  Merrimack  and  Lowell,  or  Hooksett 
and  Manchester.  They  make  two  or  three  trips  from  Mer- 
rimack to  Lowell  and  back,  about  twenty-five  miles  each 
way,  in  a  week,  according  to  wind  and  weather.  The  boat- 
man comes  singing  in  to  shore  late  at  night,  and  moors  his 
empty  boat,  and  gets  his  supper  and  lodging  in  some  house 
near  at  hand,  and  again  early  in  the  morning,  by  starlight, 
perhaps,  he  pushes  away  up  stream,  and,  by  a  shout,  or  the 
fragment  of  a  song,  gives  notice  of  his  approach  to  the  lock- 
man,  with  whom  he  is  to  take  his  breakfast.  If  he  gets  up 
to  his  wood-pile  before  noon  he  proceeds  to  load  his  boat 
with  the  help  of  his  single  "hand"  and  is  on  his  way  down 
again  before  night.  When  he  gets  to  Lowell  he  unloads  his 
boat,  and  gets  his  receipt  for  his  cargo,  and  having  heard 
the  news  at  the  public  house  at  Middlesex  or  elsewhere,  goes 
back  with  his  empty  boat  and  his  receipt  in  his  pocket  to  the 
owner,  and  to  get  a  new  load.  We  were  frequently  advertised 
of  their  approach  by  some  faint  sound  behind  us,  and  looking 
round  saw  them  a  mile  off,  creeping  stealthily  up  the  side  of 
the  stream  like  alligators.  It  was  pleasant  to  hail  these 
sailors  of  the  Merrimack  from  time  to  time,  and  learn  the 
news  which  circulated  with  them.  We  imagined  that  the 
sun  shining  on  their  bare  heads  had  stamped  a  liberal  and 
public  character  on  their  most  private  thoughts. 

The  open  and  sunny  interval  still  stretched  away  from  the 
river,  sometimes  by  two  or  more  terraces,  to  the  distant  hill 
country,  and  when  we  climbed  the  bank  we  commonly  found 
an  irregular  copse-wood  skirting  the  river,  the  primitive 

having  floated  down  stream  long  ago  to  ,  the  "King's 

navy."  Sometimes  we  saw  the  river  road  a  quarter  or  half 
a  mile  distant,  and  the  particolored  Concord  stage,  with  its 
cloud  of  dust,  its  van  of  earnest  travelling  faces,  and  its 
rear  of  dusty  trunks,  reminding  us  that  the  country  had 
its  places  of  rendezvous  for  restless  Yankee  men.  There 
dwelt  along  at  considerable  distances  on  this  interval  a  quiet 
agricultural  and  pastoral  people,  with  every  house  its  well, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  157 

i  as  we  sometimes  proved,  and  every  household,  though  never 
\  so  still  and  remote  it  appeared  in  the  noontide,  its  dinner 
about  these  times.  There  they  lived  on,  those  New  England 
people,  farmer  lives,  father  and  grand-father  and  great- 
grandfather, on  and  on  without  noise,  keeping  up  tradition, 
and  expecting,  beside  fair  weather  and  abundant  harvests, 
we  did  not  learn  what.  They  were  contented  to  live,  since 
it  was  so  contrived  for  them,  and  where  their  lines  had  fallen. — 

Our  uninquiring  corpses  lie  more  low 
Than  our  life's  curiosity  doth  go. 

Yet  these  men  had  no  need  to  travel  to  be  as  wise  as  Solomon 
in  all  his  glory,  so  similar  are  the  lives  of  men  in  all  countries, 
and  fraught  with  the  same  homely  experiences.  One  half 
the  world  knows  how  the  other  half  lives. 

About  noon  we  passed  a  small  village  in  Merrimack  at 
Thornton's  Ferry,  and  tasted  of  the  waters  of  Naticook 
Brook  on  the  same  side,  where  French  and  his  companions, 
whose  grave  we  saw  in  Dunstable,  were  ambuscaded  by  the 
Indians.  The  humble  village  of  Litchfield,  with  its  steeple- 
less  meeting-house,  stood  on  the  opposite  or  east  bank,  near 
where  a  dense  grove  of  willows  backed  by  maples  skirted  the 
shore.  There  also  we  noticed  some  shagbark  trees,  which, 
as  they  do  not  grow  in  Concord,  were  as  strange  a  sight  to 
us  as  the  palm  would  be,  whose  fruit  only  we  have  seen.  Our 
course  now  curved  gracefully  to  the  north,  leaving  a  low  flat 
shore  on  the  Merrimack  side,  which  forms  a  sort  of  harbor 
for  canal  boats.  We  observed  some  fair  elms  and  particularly 
large  and  handsome  white-maples  standing  conspicuously  on 
this  interval,  and  the  opposite  shore,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
below,  was  covered  with  young  elms  and  maples  six  inches 
high,  which  had  probably  sprung  from  the  seeds  which  had 
been  washed  across. 

Some  carpenters  were  at  work  here  mending  a  scow  on 
the  green  and  sloping  bank.  The  strokes  of  their  mallets 
echoed  from  shore  to  shore,  and  up  and  down  the  river,  and 
their  tools  gleamed  in  the  sun  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  us, 
and  we  realized  that  boat-building  was  as  ancient  and  honor- 
able an  art  as  agriculture,  and  that  there  might  be  a  naval 
as  well  as  a  pastoral  life.  The  whole  history  of  commerce 
was  made  manifest  in  that  scow  turned  bottom  upward  on 
the  shore.    Thus  did  men  begin  to  go  down  upon  the  sea 


158  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

in  ships.  We  thought  that  it  would  be  well  for  the  traveller 
to  build  his  boat  on  the  bank  of  a  stream,  instead  of  finding 
a  ferry  or  a  bridge.  In  the  Adventures  of  Henry  the  fur- 
trader,  it  is  pleasant  to  read  that  when  with  his  Indians  he 
reached  the  shore  of  Ontario,  they  consumed  two  days  in 
making  two  canoes  of  the  bark  of  the  elm  tree,  in  which  to 
transport  themselves  to  Fort  Niagara.  It  is  a  worthy  in- 
cident in  a  journey,  a  delay  as  good  as  much  rapid  travelling. 
A  good  share  of  our  interest  in  Xenophon's  story  of  his  re- 
treat is  in  the  manoeuvres  to  get  the  army  safely  over  the 
rivers,  whether  on  rafts  of  logs  or  fagots,  or  on  sheep-skins 
blown  up.  And  where  could  they  better  afford  to  tarry  mean- 
while than  on  the  banks  of  a  river? 

As  we  glided  past  at  a  distance,  these  outdoor  workmen 
appeared  to  have  added  some  dignity  to  their  labor  by  its 
very  publicness.  It  was  a  part  of  the  industry  of  nature, 
like  the  work  of  hornets  and  mud-wasps.  — 

The  waves  slowly  beat, 
Just  to  keep  the  noon  sweet, 
And  no  sound  is  floated  o'er, 
Save  the  mallet  on  shore, 
Which  echoing  on  high, 
Seems  a-caulking  the  sky. 

The  haze,  the  sun's  dust  of  travel,  had  a  lethean  influence 
on  the  land  and  its  inhabitants,  and  all  creatures  resigned 
themselves  to  float  upon  the  inappreciable  tides  of  nature. 

Woof  of  the  sun,  ethereal  gauze, 
Woven  of  Nature's  richest  stuffs, 
Visible  heat,  air-water,  and  dry  sea, 
Last  conquest  of  the  eye ; 
Toil  of  the  day  displayed,  sun-dust, 
Aerial  surf  upon  the  snores  of  earth, 
Ethereal  estuary,  frith  of  light, 
Breakers  of  air,  billows  of  heat, 
Fine  summer  spray  on  inland  seas ; 
Bird  of  the  sun,  transparent-winged, 
Owlet  of  noon,  soft-pinioned, 
From  heath  or  stubble  rising  without  song ; 
Establish  thy  serenity  o'er  the  fields. 

The  routine  which  is  in  the  sunshine  and  the  finest  days, 
as  that  which  has  conquered  and  prevailed,  commends  itself 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  159 

to  us  by  its  very  antiquity  and  apparent  solidity  and  neces- 
sity. Our  weakness  needs  it,  and  our  strength  uses  it.  We 
cannot  draw  on  our  boots  without  bracing  ourselves  against 
it.  If  there  were  but  one  erect  and  solid  standing  tree  in  the 
woods,  all  creatures  would  go  to  rub  against  it  and  make 
sure  of  their  footing.  During  the  many  hours  which  we 
spend  in  this  waking  sleep,  the  hand  stands  still  on  the  face 
of  the  clock,  and  we  grow  like  corn  in  the  night.  Men  are 
as  busy  as  the  brooks  or  bees,  and  postpone  everything 
to  their  busyness;  as  carpenters  discuss  politics  between 
the  strokes  of  the  hammer  while  they  are  shingling  a  roof. 

This  noontide  was  a  fit  occasion  to  make  some  pleasant 
harbor,  and  there  read  the  journal  of  some  voyageur  like 
ourselves,  not  too  moral  nor  inquisitive,  and  which  would 
not  disturb  the  noon ;  or  else  some  old  classic,  the  very  flower 
of  all  reading,  which  we  had  postponed  to  such  a  season 

"Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure." 

But,  alas,  our  chest,  like  the  cabin  of  a  coaster,  contained 
only  its  well-thumbed  Navigator  for  all  literature,  and  we 
were  obliged  to  draw  on  our  memory  for  these  things.  We 
naturally  remembered  Alexander  Henry's  Adventures  here 
as  a  sort  of  classic  among  books  of  American  travel.  It 
contains  scenery  and  rough  sketching  of  men  and  incidents 
enough  to  inspire  poets  for  many  years,  and  to  my  fancy 
is  as  full  of  sounding  names  as  any  page  of  history,  —  Lake 
Winnipeg,  Hudson's  Bay,  Ottaway,  and  portages  innumer- 
able ;  Chippeways,  Gens  de  Terres,  Les  Pilleurs,  The  Weepers ; 
with  reminiscences  of  Hearne's  journey,  and  the  like;  an 
immense  and  shaggy  but  sincere  country  summer  and  winter, 
adorned  with  chains  of  lakes  and  rivers,  covered  with  snows, 
with  hemlocks  and  fir  trees.  There  is  a  naturalness,  an  un- 
pretending and  cold  fife  in  this  traveller,  as  in  a  Canadian 
winter,  what  life  was  preserved  through  low  temperatures 
and  frontier  dangers  by  furs  within  a  stout  heart.  He  has 
truth  and  moderation  worthy  of  the  father  of  history,  which 
belong  only  to  an  intimate  experience,  and  he  does  not  defer 
too  much  to  literature.  The  unlearned  traveller  may  quote 
his  single  line  from  the  poets  with  as  good  right  as  the  scholar. 
He  too  may  speak  of  the  stars,  for  he  sees  them  shoot  per- 
haps when  the  astronomer  does  not.    The  good  sense  of 


160  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

this  author  is  very  conspicuous.  He  is  a  traveller  who  does 
not  exaggerate,  but  writes  for  the  information  of  his  readers, 
for  science  and  for  history.  His  story  is  told  with  as  much 
good  faith  and  directness  as  if  it  were  a  report  to  his  brother 
traders,  or  the  Directors  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  and 
is  fitly  dedicated  to  Sir  Joseph  Banks.  It  reads  like  the  ar- 
gument to  a  great  poem  on  the  primitive  state  of  the  country 
and  its  inhabitants,  and  the  reader  imagines  what  in  each 
case  with  the  invocation  of  the  Muse  might  be  sung,  and 
leaves  off  with  suspended  interest,  as  if  the  full  account  were 
to  follow.  In  what  school  was  this  fur-trader  educated? 
He  seems  to  travel  the  immense  snowy  country  with  such 
purpose  only  as  the  reader  who  accompanies  him,  and  to  the 
tatter's  imagination,  it  is,  as  it  were,  momentarily  created 
to  be  the  scene  of  his  adventures.  What  is  most  interesting 
and  valuable  in  it,  however,  is  not  the  materials  for  the  his- 
tory of  Pontiac,  of  Braddock,  or  the  North  West,  which  it 
furnishes;  not  the  annals  of  the  country,  but  the  natural 
facts,  or  perennials,  which  are  ever  without  date.  When 
out  of  history  the  truth  shall  be  extracted,  it  will  have  shed 
its  dates  like  withered  leaves. 

The  Souhegan,  or  Crooked  river,  as  some  translate  it,  comes 
in  from  the  west  about  a  mile  and  a  half  above  Thornton's 
Ferry.  Babboosuck  Brook  empties  into  it  near  its  mouth. 
There  are  said  to  be  some  of  the  finest  water  privileges  in 
the  country  still  unimproved  on  the  former  stream,  at  a  short 
distance  from  the  Merrimack.  One  spring  morning,  March 
22,  in  the  year  1677,  an  incident  occurred  on  the  banks  of 
the  river  here,  which  is  interesting  to  us  as  a  slight  memorial 
of  an  interview  between  two  ancient  tribes  of  men,  one  of 
which  is  now  extinct,  while  the  other,  though  it  is  still  repre- 
sented by  a  miserable  remnant,  has  long  since  disappeared 
from  its  ancient  hunting  grounds.  A  Mr.  James  Parker  at 
"Mr.  Hinchmanne's  farme  ner  Meremack,"  wrote  thus  "to 
the  Honred  Governer  and  Council  at  Bostown,  Hast,  Post 
Hast:' 

"Sagamore  Wanalancet  come  this  morning  to  informe 
me,  and  then  went  to  Mr.  Tyng's  to  informe  him,  that  his 
son  being  on  ye  other  sid  of  Meremack  river  over  against 
Souhegan  upon  the  22  day  of  this  instant,  about  tene  of 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  161 

the  clock  in  the  morning,  he  discovered  15  Indians  on  this 
sid  the  river,  which  he  soposed  to  be  Mohokes  by  ther  spech. 
He  called  to  them ;  they  answered,  but  he  could  not  under- 
stand ther  spech ;  and  he  having  a  conow  ther  in  the  river, 
he  went  to  breck  his  conow  that  they  might  not  have  ani 
ues  of  it.  In  the  mean  time  they  shot  about  thirty  guns  at 
him,  and  he  being  much  frighted  fled,  and  come  home  forth- 
with to  Nashamcock,  [Pawtucket  Falls  or  Lowell]  wher  ther 
wigowames  now  stand." 

Penacooks  and  Mohawks!  ubique  gentium  sunt?  Where 
are  they  now?  —  In  the  year  1670,  a  Mohawk  warrior  scalped 
a  Naamkeak  or  Wamesit  Indian  maiden  near  where  Lowell 
now  stands.  She,  however,  recovered.  Even  as  late  as  1685, 
John  Hogkins,  a  Penacook  Indian,  who  describes  his  grand- 
father as  having  lived  "at  place  called  Malamake  rever, 
other  name  chef  Natukkog  and  Panukkog,  that  one  rever 
great  many  names,"  wrote  thus  to  the  governor :  — 

|„  ...  "May  15th,  1685. 

"Honor  governor  my  mend,  — 

"You  my  friend  I  desire  your  worship  and  your  power, 
because  I  hope  you  can  do  som  great  matters  this  one.  I  am 
poor  and  naked  and  I  have  no  men  at  my  place  because  I 
afraid  allwayes  Mohogs  he  will  kill  me  every  day  and  night. 
If  your  worship  when  please  pray  help  me  you  no  let  Mohogs 
kill  me  at  my  place  at  Malamake  river  called  Pannukkog 
and  Natukkog,  I  will  submit  your  worship  and  your  power. 
—  And  now  I  want  pouder  and  such  alminishon  shatt  and 
guns,  because  I  have  forth  at  my  horn  and  1  plant  theare. 

"This  all  Indian  hand,  but  pray  you  do  consider  your 
humble  servant,  John  Hogkins." 

Signed  also  by  Simon  Detogkom,  King  Hary,  Sam  Linis, 
Mr.  Jorge  Rodunnonukgus,  John  Owamosimmin,  and  nine 
other  Indians,  with  their  marks  against  their  names. 
'  But  now,  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  years  having  elapsed 
since  the  date  of  this  letter,  we  went  unalarmed  on  our  way, 
without  "brecking"  our  "conow,"  reading  the  New  England 
Gazetteer,  and  seeing  no  traces  of  "Mohogs"  on  the  banks. 
The  Souhegan,  though  a  rapid  river,  seemed  to-day  to  have- 
borrowed  its  character  from  the  noon. 


162  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Where  gleaming  fields  of  haze 
Meet  the  voyageur's  gaze, 
And  above,  the  heated  air 
Seems  to  make  a  river  there, 
The  pines  stand  up  with  pride 
By  the  Souhegan's  side, 
And  the  hemlock  and  the  larch 
With  their  triumphal  arch 
Are  waving  o'er  its  march 

To  the  sea. 
No  wind  stirs  its  waves, 
But  the  spirits  of  the  braves 

Hov'ring  o'er, 
Whose  antiquated  graves 
Its  still  water  laves 

On  the  shore. 
With  an  Indian's  stealthy  tread 
It  goes  sleeping  in  its  bed, 
Without  joy  or  grief, 
Or  the  rustle  of  a  leaf, 
Without  a  ripple  or  a  billow, 
Or  the  sigh  of  a  willow, 
From  the  Lyndeboro'  hills 
To  the  Merrimack  mills. 
With  a  louder  din 
Did  its  current  begin, 
When  melted  the  snow 
On  the  far  mountain's  brow, 
And  the  drops  came  together 
In  that  rainy  weather. 
Experienced  river, 
Hast  thou  flowed  forever? 
Souhegan  soundeth  old, 
But  the  half  is  not  told, 
What  names  hast  thou  borne 
In  the  ages  far  gone, 
When  the  Xanthus  and  Meander 
Commenced  to  wander, 
Ere  the  black  bear  haunted 

Thy  red  forest-floor, 
Or  Nature  had  planted 

The  pines  by  thy  shore. 

During  the  heat  of  the  day,  we  rested  on  a  large  island  a 
mile  above  the  mouth  of  this  river,  pastured  by  a  herd  of 
cattle,  with  steep  banks  and  scattered  elms  and  oaks,  and  a 
sufficient  channel  for  canal  boats  on  each  side.     When  we 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  163 

made  a  fire  to  boil  some  rice  for  our  dinner,  the  flames  spread- 
ing amid  the  dry  grass,  and  the  smoke  curling  silently  upward 
and  casting  grotesque  shadows  on  the  ground  seemed  phenom- 
ena of  the  noon,  and  we  fancied  that  we  progressed  up  the 
stream  without  effort,  and  as  naturally  as  the  wind  and  tide 
went  down,  not  outraging  the  calm  days  by  unworthy  bustle 
or  impatience.  The  woods  on  the  neighboring  shore  were 
alive  with  pigeons,  which  were  moving  south  looking  for 
mast,  but  now,  like  ourselves,  spending  their  noon  in  the 
shade.  We  could  hear  the  slight  wiry  winnowing  sound  of 
their  wings  as  they  changed  their  roosts  from  time  to  time, 
and  their  gentle  and  tremulous  cooing.  They  sojourned  with 
us  during  the  noontide,  greater  travellers  far  than  we.  You 
may  frequently  discover  a  single  pair  sitting  upon  the  lower 
branches  of  the  white  pine  in  the  depths  of  the  wood,  at  this 
hour  of  the  day,  so  silent  and  solitary,  and  with  such  a  hermit- 
like appearance,  as  if  they  had  never  strayed  beyond  its 
skirts,  while  the  acorn  which  was  gathered  in  the  forests  of 
Maine  is  still  undigested  in  their  crops.  We  obtained  one 
of  these  handsome  birds,  which  lingered  too  long  upon  its 
perch,  and  plucked  and  broiled  it  here  with  some  other  game, 
to  be  carried  along  for  our  supper ;  for  beside  the  provisions 
which  we  carried  with  us,  we  depended  mainly  on  the  river 
and  forest  for  our  supply.  It  is  true,  it  did  not  seem  to  be 
putting  this  bird  to  its  right  use,  to  pluck  off  its  feathers,  and 
extract  its  entrails,  and  broil  its  carcass  on  the  coals;  but 
we  heroically  persevered,  nevertheless,  waiting  for  farther 
information.  The  same  regard  for  Nature  which  excited 
our  sympathy  for  her  creatures,  nerved  our  hands  to  carry 
through  what  we  had  begun.  For  we  would  be  honorable 
to  the  party  we  deserted;  we  would  fulfil  fate,  and  so  at 
length,  perhaps,  detect  the  secret  innocence  of  these  incessant 
tragedies  which  Heaven  allows.  — 

"Too  quick  resolves  do  resolution  wrong, 
What,  part  so  soon  to  be  divorced  so  long? 
Things  to  be  done  are  long  to  be  debated ; 
Heaven  is  not  day'd,  Repentance  is  not  dated." 

We  are  double-edged  blades,  and  every  time  we  whet  our 
virtue  the  return  stroke  straps  our  vice.  Where  is  the  skilful 
swordsman  who  can  give  clean  wounds,  and  not  rip  up  his 
work  with  the  other  edge  ? 


164  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Nature  herself  has  not  provided  the  most  graceful  end  for 
her  creatures.  What  becomes  of  all  these  birds  that  people 
the  air  and  forest  for  our  solacement?  The  sparrows  seem 
always  chipper,  never  infirm.  We  do  not  see  their  bodies 
lie  about ;  yet  there  is  a  tragedy  at  the  end  of  each  one  of 
their  lives.  They  must  perish  miserably;  not  one  of  them 
is  translated.  True,  "not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground 
without  our  Heavenly  Father's  knowledge,"  but  they  do 
fall,  nevertheless. 

The  carcasses  of  some  poor  squirrels,  however,  the  same 
that  frisked  so  merrily  in  the  morning,  which  we  had  skinned 
and  embowelled  for  our  dinner,  we  abandoned  in  disgust, 
with  tardy  humanity,  as  too  wretched  a  resource  for  any 
but  starving  men.  It  was  to  perpetuate  the  practice  of  a 
barbarous  era.  If  they  had  been  larger,  our  crime  had  been 
less.  Their  small  red  bodies,  little  bundles  of  red  tissue, 
mere  gobbets  of  venison,  would  not  have  "fattened  fire." 
With  a  sudden  impulse  we  threw  them  away,  and  washed 
our  hands,  and  boiled  some  rice  for  our  dinner.  "Behold  the 
difference  between  the  one  who  eateth  flesh,  and  him  to  whom 
it  belonged !  The  first  hath  a  momentary  enjoyment,  whilst 
the  latter  is  deprived  of  existence!"  —  "Who  could  commit 
so  great  a  crime  against  a  poor  animal,  who  is  fed  only  by  the 
herbs  which  grow  wild  in  the  woods,  and  whose  belly  is  burnt 
up  with  hunger?"  We  remembered  a  picture  of  mankind 
in  the  hunter  age,  chasing  hares  down  the  mountains,  O  me 
miserable!  Yet  sheep  and  oxen  are  but  larger  squirrels, 
whose  hides  are  saved  and  meat  is  salted,  whose  souls  per- 
chance are  not  so  large  in  proportion  to  their  bodies. 

There  should  always  be  some  flowering  and  maturing  of 
the  fruits  of  nature  in  the  cooking  process.  Some  simple 
dishes  recommend  themselves  to  our  imaginations  as  well 
as  palates.  In  parched  corn,  for  instance,  there  is  a  mani- 
fest sympathy  between  the  bursting  seed  and  the  most  per- 
fect developments  of  vegetable  life.  It  is  a  perfect  flower 
with  its  petals,  like  the  houstonia  or  anemone.  On  my  warm 
hearth  these  cerealian  blossoms  expanded ;  here  is  the  bank 
whereon  they  grew.  Perhaps  some  such  visible  blessing 
would  always  attend  the  simple  and  wholesome  repast. 

Here  was  that  "pleasant  harbor"  which  we  had  sighed 
for,  where  the  weary  voyageur  could  read  the  journal  of  some 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  165 

other  sailor,  whose  bark  had  plowed,  perchance,  more  famous 
and  classic  seas.  At  the  tables  of  the  gods,  after  feasting 
follow  music  and  song ;  we  will  recline  now  under  these  island 
trees,  and  for  our  minstrel  call  on 

ANACREON 

"Nor  has  he  ceased  his  charming  song,  but  still  that  lyre, 
Though  he  is  dead,  sleeps  not  in  Hades." 

Simonides'  Epigram  on  Anacreon. 

I  lately  met  with  an  old  volume  from  a  London  bookshop, 
containing  the  Greek  Minor  Poets,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
read  once  more  only  the  words,  —  Orpheus,  —  Linus, — 
Musseus,  —  those  faint  poetic  sounds  and  echoes  of  a  name, 
dying  away  on  the  ears  of  us  modern  men ;  and  those  hardly 
more  substantial  sounds,  Mimnermus  —  Ibycus  —  Alcaeus 
—  Stesichorus  —  Menander.  They  lived  not  in  vain.  We 
can  converse  with  these  bodiless  fames  without  reserve  or 
personality. 

I  know  of  no  studies  so  composing  as  those  of  the  classical 
scholar.  When  we  have  sat  down  to  them,  life  seems  as  still 
and  serene  as  if  it  were  very  far  off,  and  I  believe  it  is  not 
habitually  seen  from  any  common  platform  so  truly  and 
unexaggerated  as  in  the  light  of  literature.  In  serene  hours 
we  contemplate  the  tour  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  authors 
with  more  pleasure  than  the  traveller  does  the  fairest  scenery 
of  Greece  or  Italy.  Where  shall  we  find  a  more  refined  so- 
ciety? That  highway  down  from  Homer  and  Hesiod  to  Hor- 
ace and  Juvenal  is  more  attractive  than  the  Appian.  Reading 
the  classics,  or  conversing  with  those  old  Greeks  and  Latins 
in  their  surviving  works,  is  like  walking  amid  the  stars  and 
constellations,  a  high  and  by  way  serene  to  travel.  Indeed, 
the  true  scholar  will  be  not  a  little  of  an  astronomer  in  his 
habits.  Distracting  cares  will  not  be  allowed  to  obstruct 
the  field  of  his  vision,  for  the  higher  regions  of  literature, 
like  astronomy,  are  above  storm  and  darkness. 

But  passing  by  these  rumors  of  bards,  let  us  pause  for  a 
moment  at  the  Teian  poet. 

There  is  something  strangely  modern  about  him.  He  is 
very  easily  turned  into  English.  Is  it  that  our  lyric  poets 
have  resounded  only  that  lyre,  which  would  sound  only  light 


166  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

subjects,  and  which  Simonides  tells  us  does  not  sleep  in  Hades  ? 
His  odes  are  like  gems  of  pure  ivory.  They  possess  an  ethereal 
and  evanescent  beauty  like  summer  evenings,  o  xp*}  at  voeiv 
voov  avOa,  which  you  must  perceive  with  the  flower  of  the 
mind,  —  and  show  how  slight  a  beauty  could  be  expressed. 
You  have  to  consider  them,  as  the  stars  of  lesser  magnitude, 
with  the  side  of  the  eye,  and  look  aside  from  them  to  behold 
them.  They  charm  us  by  their  serenity  and  freedom  from 
exaggeration  and  passion,  and  by  a  certain  flowerlike  beauty, 
which  does  not  propose  itself,  but  must  be  approached  and 
studied  like  a  natural  object.  But  perhaps  their  chief  merit 
consists  in  the  lightness  and  yet  security  of  their  tread ; 

"The  young  and  tender  stalk 
Ne'er  bends  when  they  do  walk." 

True,  our  nerves  are  never  strung  by  them ;  —  it  is  too 
constantly  the  sound  of  the  lyre,  and  never  the  note  of  the 
trumpet ;  but  they  are  not  gross,  as  has  been  presumed,  but 
always  elevated  above  the  sensual. 

Perhaps  these  are  the  best  that  have  come  down  to  us. 

ON  HIS  LYRE 

I  wish  to  sing  the  Atridse, 
And  Cadmus  I  wish  to  sing ; 
But  my  lyre  sounds 
Only  love  with  its  chords. 
Lately  I  changed  the  strings 
And  all  the  lyre ; 
And  I  began  to  sing  the  labors 
Of  Hercules ;  but  my  lyre 
Resounded  loves. 
Farewell,  henceforth,  for  me, 
Heroes,  for  my  lyre 
/  Sings  only  loves. 


TO  A  SWALLOW 

Thou  indeed,  dear  swallow, 
Yearly  going  and  coming, 
In  summer  weavest  thy  nest, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  167 

And  in  winter  go'st  disappearing 
Either  to  Nile  or  to  Memphis. 
But  Love  always  weaveth 
His  nest  in  my  heart.*** 


ON  A  SILVER  CUP 

Turning  the  silver, 

Vulcan,  make  for  me, 

Not  indeed  a  panoply, 

For  what  are  battles  to  me? 

But  a  hollow  cup, 

As  deep  as  thou  canst. 

And  make  for  me  in  it 

Neither  stars,  nor  wagons, 

Nor  sad  Orion ; 

What  are  the  Pleiades  to  me? 

What  the  shining  Bootes? 

Make  vines  for  me, 

And  clusters  of  grapes  in  it, 

And  of  gold  Love  and  Bathyllus 

Treading  the  grapes 

With  the  fair  Lyaeus. 


ON   HIMSELF 

Thou  sing'st  the  affairs  of  Thebes 

And  he  the  battles  of  Troy, 

But  I  of  my  own  defeats. 

No  horse  have  wasted  me, 

Nor  foot,  nor  ships ; 

But  a  new  and  different  host, 

From  eyes  smiting  me. 


TO  A   DOVE 

Lovely  dove, 

Whence,  whence  dost  thou  fly? 
Whence,  running  on  air, 
Dost  thou  waft  and  diffuse 
So  many  sweet  ointments? 


168  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Who  art?     What  thy  errand?  — 

Anacreon  sent  me 

To  a  boy,  to  Bathyllus, 

Who  lately  is  ruler  and  tyrant  of  all. 

Cythere  has  sold  me 

For  one  little  song, 

And  I'm  doing  this  service 

For  Anacreon. 

And  now,  as  you  see, 

I  bear  letters  from  him. 

And  he  says  that  directly 

He'll  make  me  free, 

But  though  he  release  me, 

His  slave  I  will  tarry  with  him. 

For  why  should  I  fly 

Over  mountains  and  fields, 

And  perch  upon  trees, 

Eating  some  wild  thing? 

Now  indeed  I  eat  bread, 

Plucking  it  from  the  hands 

Of  Anacreon  himself ; 

And  he  gives  me  to  drink 

The  wine  which  he  tastes, 

And  drinking,  I  dance, 

And  shadow  my  master's 

Face  with  my  wings ; 

And,  going  to  rest, 

On  the  lyre  itself  I  sleep. 

That  is  all ;  get  thee  gone. 

Thou  hast  made  me  more  talkative, 

Man,  than  a  crow. 


ON  LOVE 

Love  walking  swiftly, 

With  hyacinthine  staff, 

Bade  me  to  take  a  run  with  him ; 

And  hastening  through  swift  torrents, 

And  woody  places,  and  over  precipices, 

A  water-snake  stung  me. 

And  my  heart  leaped  up  to 

My  mouth,  and  I  should  have  fainted ; 

But  Love  fanning  my  brows 

With  his  soft  wings,  said, 

Surely,  thou  art  not  able  to  love. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS 


ON  WOMEN 

Nature  has  given  horns 

To  bulls,  and  hoofs  to  horses, 

Swiftness  to  hares, 

To  lions  yawning  teeth, 

To  fishes  swimming, 

To  birds  flight, 

To  men  wisdom. 

For  women  she  had  nothing  beside ; 

What  then  does  she  give  ?     Beauty, 

Instead  of  all  shields, 

Instead  of  all  spears ; 

And  she  conquers  even  iron 

And  fire,  who  is  beautiful. 


ON  LOVERS 

Horses  have  the  mark 

Of  fire  on  their  sides, 

And  some  have  distinguished 

The  Parthian  men  by  their  crests ; 

So  I,  seeing  lovers, 

Know  them  at  once, 

For  they  have  a  certain  slight 

Brand  on  their  hearts. 


TO  A  SWALLOW 

What  dost  thou  wish  me  to  do  to  thee 

What,  thou  loquacious  swallow? 

Dost  thou  wish  me  taking  thee 

Thy  light  pinions  to  clip  ? 

Or  rather  to  pluck  out 

Thy  tongue  from  within, 

As  that  Tereus  did? 

Why  with  thy  notes  in  the  dawn 

Hast  thou  plundered  Bathyllus 

From  my  beautiful  dreams? 


170  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 


TO  A  COLT 

Thracian  colt,  why  at  me 
Looking  aslant  with  thy  eyes, 
Dost  thou  cruelly  flee, 
And  think  that  I  know  nothing  wise? 
Know  I  could  well 
Put  the  bridle  on  thee, 
And  holding  the  reins,  turn 
Round  the  bounds  of  the  course. 
But  now  thou  browsest  the  meads, 
And  gambolling  lightly  dost  play, 
For  thou  hast  no  skillful  horseman 
Mounted  upon  thy  back. 


CUPID  WOUNDED 

Love  once  among  roses 

Saw  not 

A  sleeping  bee,  but  was  stung ; 

And  being  wounded  in  the  finger 

Of  his  hand,  cried  for  pain. 

Running  as  well  as  flying 

To  the  beautiful  Venus, 

I  am  killed,  mother,  said  he, 

I  am  killed,  and  I  die. 

A  little  serpent  has  stung  me, 

Winged,  which  they  call 

A  bee  —  the  husbandmen. 

And  she  said,  If  the  sting 

Of  a  bee  afflicts  you, 

How,  think  you,  are  they  afflicted, 

Love,  whom  you  smite? 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  for  we  had  lingered  long  on  the 
island,  we  raised  our  sail  for  the  first  time,  and  for  a  short 
hour  the  south-west  wind  was  our  ally ;  but  it  did  not  please 
Heaven  to  abet  us  long.  With  one  sail  raised  we  swept 
slowly  up  the  eastern  side  of  the  stream,  steering  clear  of  the 
rocks,  while  from  the  top  of  a  hill  which  formed  the  opposite 
bank,  some  lumberers  were  rolling  down  timber  to  be  rafted 
down  the  stream.    We  could  see  their  axes  and  levers  gleam- 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  171 

ing  in  the  sun,  and  the  logs  came  down  with  a  dust  and  a 
rumbling  sound,  which  was  reverberated  through  the  woods 
beyond  us  on  our  side,  like  the  roar  of  artillery.  But  Zephyr 
soon  took  us  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  this  commerce. 
Having  passed  Read's  Ferry,  and  another  island  called  Mc- 
Gaw's  Island,  we  reached  some  rapids  called  Moore's  Falls, 
and  entered  on  "that  section  of  the  river,  nine  miles  in  extent, 
converted,  by  law,  into  the  Union  Canal,  comprehending  in 
that  space  six  distinct  falls ;  at  each  of  which,  and  at  several 
intermediate  places,  work  has  been  done."  After  passing 
Moore's  Falls  by  means  of  locks,  we  again  had  recourse  to 
our  oars,  and  went  merrily  on  our  way,  driving  the  small 
sand-piper  from  rock  to  "rock  before  us,  and  sometimes  row- 
ing near  enough  to  a  cottage  on  the  bank,  though  they  were 
few  and  far  between,  to  see  the  sun-flowers,  and  the  seed 
vessels  of  the  poppy,  like  small  goblets  filled  with  the  water 
of  Lethe,  before  the  door,  but  without  disturbing  the  sluggish 
household  behind.  Thus  we  held  on,  sailing  or  dipping  our 
way  along  with  the  paddle  up  this  broad  river,  —  smooth 
and  placid,  flowing  over  concealed  rocks,  where  we  could 
see  the  pickerel  lying  low  in  the  transparent  water,  —  eager 
to  double  some  distant  cape,  to  make  some  great  bend  as  in 
the  life  of  man,  and  see  what  new  perspective  would  open ; 
looking  far  into  a  new  country,  broad  and  serene,  the  cottages 
of  settlers  seen  afar  for  the  first  time,  yet  with  the  moss  of 
a  century  on  their  roofs,  and  the  third  or  fourth  generation 
in  their  shadow.  Strange  was  it  to  consider  how  the  sun  and 
the  summer,  the  buds  of  spring  and  the  seared  leaves  of 
autumn,  were  related  to  these  cabins  along  the  shore ;  how 
all  the  rays  which  paint  the  landscape  radiate  from  them, 
and  the  flight  of  the  crow  and  the  gyrations  of  the  hawk  have 
reference  to  their  roofs.  '' Still  the  ever  rich  and  fertile  shores 
accompanied  us,  fringed  with  vines  and  alive  with  small 
birds  and  frisking  squirrels,  the  edge  of  some  farmer's  field 
or  widow's  wood-lot ;  or  wilder,  perchance,  where  the  musk- 
rat,  the  little  medicine  of  the  river,  drags  itself  along  stealthily 
over  the  alder  leaves  and  mussel  shells,  and  man  and  the 
memory  of  man  are  banished  far. 

At  length  the  unwearied,  never  sinking  shore,  still  holding 
on  without  break,  with  its  cool  copses  and  serene  pasture 
grounds,  tempted  us  to  disembark;  and  we  adventurously 
landed  on  this  remote  coast,  to  survey  it,  unknown  to  any 


172  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

human  inhabitant  probably  to  this  day.  But  we  still  remem- 
ber the  gnarled  and  hospitable  oaks  which  grew  even  there 
for  our  entertainment,  and  were  no  strangers  to  us,  the  lonely 
horse  in  his  pasture,  and  the  patient  cows,  whose  path  to 
the  river,  so  judiciously  chosen  to  overcome  the  difficulties 
of  the  way,  we  followed,  and  disturbed  their  ruminations  in 
the  shade;  and,  above  all,  the  cool  free  aspect  of  the  wild 
apple  trees,  generously  proffering  their  fruit  to  us,  though 
still  green  and  crude,  the  hard,  round,  glossy  fruit,  which,  if 
not  ripe,  still  was  not  poison,  but  New  English  too,  brought 
hither,  its  ancestors,  by  ours  once.  These  gentler  trees  im- 
parted a  half-civilized  and  twilight  aspect  to  the  otherwise 
barbarian  land.  Still  further  on  we  scrambled  up  the  rocky 
channel  of  a  brook,  which  had  long  served  nature  for  a  sluice 
there,  leaping  like  it  from  rock  to  rock  through  tangled  woods, 
at  the  bottom  of  a  ravine,  which  grew  darker  and  darker, 
and  more  and  more  hoarse  the  murmurs  of  the  stream,  until 
we  reached  the  ruins  of  a  mill,  where  now  the  ivy  grew,  and 
the  trout  glanced  through  the  crumbling  flume;  and  there 
we  imagined  what  had  been  the  dreams  and  speculations  of 
some  early  settler.  But  the  waning  day  compelled  us  to 
embark  once  more,  and  redeem  this  wasted  time  with  long 
and  vigorous  sweeps  over  the  rippling  stream. 

It  was  still  wild  and  solitary,  except  that  at  intervals  of 
a  mile  or  two  the  roof  of  a  cottage  might  be  seen  over  the 
bank.  This  region,  as  we  read,  was  once  famous  for  the 
manufacture  of  straw  bonnets  of  the  Leghorn  kind,  of  which 
it  claims  the  invention  in  these  parts,  and  occasionally  some 
industrious  damsel  tripped  down  to  the  water's  edge,  as  it 
appeared,  to  put  her  straw  a-soak,  and  stood  awhile  to  watch 
the  retreating  voyageurs,  and  catch  the  fragment  of  a  boat 
song  which  we  had  made  wafted  over  the  water. 


Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hunter, 
Many  a  lagging  year  agone, 

Gliding  o'er  thy  rippling  waters, 
Lowly  hummed  a  natural  song. 

Now  the  sun's  behind  the  willows, 
Now  he  gleams  along  the  waves, 

Faintly  o'er  the  wearied  billows 
Come  the  spirits  of  the  braves. 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  173 

Just  before  sundown  we  reached  some  more  falls  in  the 
town  of  Bedford,  where  some  stone-masons  were  employed 
repairing  the  locks  in  a  solitary  part  of  the  river.  They  were 
interested  in  our  adventures,  especially  one  young  man  of 
our  own  age,  who  inquired  at  first  if  we  were  bound  up  to 
"  '  Skeag ;  and  when  he  had  heard  our  story,  and  examined  our 
outfit,  asked  us  other  questions,  but  temperately  still,  and 
always  turning  to  his  work  again,  though  as  if  it  were  become 
his  duty.  It  was  plain  that  he  would  like  to  go  with  us,  and 
as  he  looked  up  the  river,  many  a  distant  cape  and  wooded 
shore  were  reflected  in  his  eye,  as  well  as  in  his  thoughts. 
When  we  were  ready  he  left  his  work,  and  helped  us  through 
the  locks  with  a  sort  of  quiet  enthusiasm,  telling  us  we  were 
at  Coos  Falls,  and  we  could  still  distinguish  the  strokes  of  his 
chisel  for  many  sweeps  after  we  had  left  him. 

We  wished  to  camp  this  night  on  a  large  rock  in  the  middle 
of  the  stream,  just  above  these  falls,  but  the  want  of  fuel, 
and  the  difficulty  of  fixing  our  tent  firmly,  prevented  us ;  so 
we  made  our  bed  on  the  main  land  opposite,  on  the  west 
bank,  in  the  town  of  Bedford,  in  a  retired  place,  as  we  sup- 
posed, there  being  no  house  in  sight. 

WEDNESDAY 

"Man  is  man's  foe  and  destiny." 

—  Cotton. 

Early  this  morning,  as  we  were  rolling  up  our  buffaloes 
and  loading  our  boat  amid  the  dew,  while  our  embers  were 
still  smoking,  the  masons  who  worked  at  the  locks,  and 
whom  we  had  seen  crossing  the  river  in  their  boat  the  evening 
before  while  we  were  examining  the  rock,  came  upon  us  as 
they  were  going  to  their  work,  and  we  found  that  we  had 
pitched  our  tent  directly  in  their  path  to  their  boat.  This 
was  the  only  time  that  we  were  observed  on  our  camping 
ground.  Thus,  far  from  the  beaten  highways  and  the  dust 
and  din  of  travel,  we  beheld  the  country  privately,  yet  freely, 
and  at  our  leisure.  Other  roads  do  some  violence  to  Nature, 
and  bring  the  traveller  to  stare  at  her,  but  the  river  steals 
into  the  scenery  it  traverses  without  intrusion,  silent 
creating  and  adorning  it,  and  is  as  free  to  come  and  go  as  the 
zephyr. 


174  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

As  we  shoved  away  from  this  rocky  coast,  before  sunrise, 
the  smaller  bittern,  the  genius  of  the  shore,  was  moping  along 
its  edge,  or  stood  probing  the  mud  for  its  food,  with  ever  an 
eye  on  us,  though  so  demurely  at  work,  or  else  he  ran  along 
over  the  wet  stones  like  a  wrecker  in  his  storm  coat,  looking 
out  for  wrecks  of  snails  and  cockles.  Now  away  he  goes, 
with  a  limping  flight,  uncertain  where  he  will  alight,  until  a 
rod  of  clear  sand  amid  the  alders  invites  his  feet ;  and  now 
our  steady  approach  compels  him  to  seek  a  new  retreat. 
It  is  a  bird  of  the  oldest  Thalesian  school,  and  no  doubt  be- 
lieves in  the  priority  of  water  to  the  other  elements ;  the  relic 
of  a  twilight  antediluvian  age  which  yet  inhabits  these 
bright  American  rivers  with  us  Yankees.  There  is  some- 
thing venerable  in  this  melancholy  and  contemplative  race 
of  birds,  which  may  have  trodden  the  earth  while  it  was  yet 
in  a  slimy  and  imperfect  state.  Perchance  their  tracks  too 
are  still  visible  on  the  stones.  It  still  lingers  into  our  glaring 
summers,  bravely  supporting  its  fate  without  sympathy 
from  man,  as  if  it  looked  forward  to  some  second  advent  of 
r  which  he  has  no  assurance.  One  wonders  if,  by  its  patient 
study  by  rocks  and  sandy  capes,  it  has  wrested  the  whole 
of  her  secret  from  Nature  yet.  What  a  rich  experience  it 
must  have  gained,  standing  on  one  leg  and  looking  out  from 
its  dull  eye  so  long  on  sunshine  and  rain,  moon  and  stars ! 
What  could  it  tell  of  stagnant  pools  and  reeds  and  dank  night- 
fogs?  It  would  be  worth  the  while  to  look  closely  into  the 
eye  which  has  been  open  and  seeing  at  such  hours,  and  in 
such  solitudes,  its  dull,  yellowish,  greenish  eye.  Methinks 
my  own  soul  must  be  a  bright  invisible  green.  I  have  seen 
these  birds  stand  by  the  half  dozen  together  in  the  shallower 
water  along  the  shore,  with  their  bills  thrust  into  the  mud  at 
the  bottom,  probing  for  food,  the  whole  head  being  concealed, 
while  the  neck  and  body  formed  an  arch  above  the  water. 

Cohass  Brook,  the  outlet  of  Massabesic  Pond,  —  which 
last  is  five  or  six  miles  distant,  and  contains  fifteen  hundred 
acres,  being  the  largest  body  of  fresh  water  in  Rockingham 
county,  —  comes  in  near  here  from  the  east.  Rowing  be- 
tween Manchester  and  Bedford,  we  passed,  at  an  early  hour, 
a  ferry  and  some  falls,  called  Goff's  Falls,  the  Indian  Cohasset, 
where  there  is  a  small  village,  and  a  handsome  green  islet 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream.  From  Bedford  and  Merrimack 
have  been  boated  the  bricks  of  which  Lowell  is  made.     About 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  175 

twenty  years  before,  as  they  told  us,  one  Moore,  of  Bedford, 
having  clay  on  his  farm,  contracted  to  furnish  eight  millions 
of  bricks  to  the  founders  of  that  city  within  two  years.  He 
fulfilled  his  contract  in  one  year,  and  since  then  bricks  have 
been  the  principal  export  from  these  towns.  The  farmers 
found  thus  a  market  for  their  wood,  and  when  they  had 
brought  a  load  to  the  kilns,  they  could  cart  a  load  of  bricks 
to  the  shore,  and  so  make  a  profitable  day's  work  of  it.  Thus 
all  parties  were  benefited.  It  was  worth  the  while  to  see  the 
place  where  Lowell  was  ' '  dug  out."  So  likewise  Manchester  is 
being  built  of  bricks  made  still  higher  up  the  river  at  Hooksett. 

There  might  be  seen  here  on  the  bank  of  the  Merrimack, 
near  Goff's  Falls,  in  what  is  now  the  town  of  Bedford,  famous 
"for  hops  and  for  its  fine  domestic  manufactures/ '  some 
graves  of  the  aborigines.  The  land  still  bears  this  scar  here, 
and  time  is  slowly  crumbling  the  bones  of  a  race.  Yet  with- 
out fail  every  spring  since  they  first  fished  and  hunted  here, 
the  brown  thrasher  has  heralded  the  morning  from  a  birch 
or  alder  spray,  and  the  undying  race  of  reed-birds  still  rustles 
through  the  withering  grass.  But  these  bones  rustle  not. 
These  mouldering  elements  are  slowly  preparing  for  another 
metamorphosis,  to  serve  new  masters,  and  what  was  the 
Indian's  will  ere  long  be  the  white  man's  sinew. 

We  learned  that  Bedford  was  not  so  famous  for  hops  as 
formerly,  since  the  price  is  fluctuating,  and  poles  are  now 
scarce.  Yet  if  the  traveller  goes  back  a  few  miles  from  the 
river,  the  hop  kilns  will  still  excite  his  curiosity. 

There  were  few  incidents  in  our  voyage  this  forenoon, 
though  the  river  was  now  more  rocky  and  the  falls  more 
frequent  than  before.  It  was  a  pleasant  change,  after  rowing 
incessantly  for  many  hours,  to  lock  ourselves  through  in  some 
retired  place,  —  for  commonly  there  was  no  lockman  at 
hand,  —  one  sitting  in  the  boat,  while  the  other,  sometimes 
with  no  little  labor  and  heave-yoing,  opened  and  shut  the 
gates,  waiting  patiently  to  see  the  locks  fill.  We  did  not 
once  use  the  wheels  which  we  had  provided.  Taking  advan- 
tage of  the  eddy,  we  were  sometimes  floated  up  to  the  locks 
almost  in  the  face  of  the  falls ;  and,  by  the  same  cause,  any 
floating  timber  was  carried  round  in  a  circle  and  repeatedly 
drawn  into  the  rapids  before  it  finally  went  down  the  stream. 
These  old  gray  structures,  with  their  quiet  arms  stretched 
over  the  river  in  the  sun,  appeared  like  natural  objects  in 


176  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

the  scenery,  and  the  king-fisher  and  sand-piper  alighted  on 
them  as  readily  as  on  stakes  or  rocks. 

We  rowed  leisurely  up  the  stream  for  several  hours,  until 
the  sun  had  got  high  in  the  sky,  our  thoughts  monotonously 
beating  time  to  our  oars.  For  outward  variety  there  was 
only  the  river  and  the  receding  shores,  a  vista  continually 
opening  behind  and  closing  before  us,  as  we  sat  with  our 
backs  up  stream,  and  for  inward  such  thoughts  as  the  muses 
grudgingly  lent  us.  We  were  always  passing  some  low  invit- 
ing shore  or  some  overhanging  bank,  on  which,  however,  we 
never  landed.  — 

Such  near  aspects  had  we 
Of  our  life's  scenery. 

It  might  be  seen  by  what  tenure  men  held  the  earth.  The 
smallest  stream  is  mediterranean  sea,  a  smaller  ocean  creek 
within  the  land,  where  men  may  steer  by  their  farm  bounds 
and  cottage  lights.  For  my  own  part,  but  for  the  geogra- 
phers, I  should  hardly  have  known  how  large  a  portion  of 
our  globe  is  water,  my  life  has  chiefly  passed  within  so  deep 
a  cove.  Yet  I  have  sometimes  ventured  as  far  as  to  the 
mouth  of  my  Snug  Harbor.  From  an  old  ruined  fort  on 
Staten  Island,  I  have  loved  to  watch  all  day  some  vessel 
whose  name  I  had  read  in  the  morning  through  the  telegraph 
glass,  when  she  first  came  upon  the  coast,  and  her  hull  heaved 
up  and  glistened  in  the  sun,  from  the  moment  when  the  pilot 
and  most  adventurous  news-boats  met  her,  past  the  Hook, 
and  up  the  narrow  channel  of  the  wide  outer  bay,  till  she  was 
boarded  by  the  health  officer,  and  took  her  station  at  Qua- 
rantine, or  held  on  her  unquestioned  course  to  the  wharves 
of  New  York.  It  was  interesting,  too,  to  watch  the  less 
adventurous  news-man,  who  made  his  assault  as  the  vessel 
swept  through  the  Narrows,  defying  plague  and  quarantine 
law,  and  fastening  his  little  cock  boat  to  her  huge  side,  clam- 
bered up  and  disappeared  in  the  cabin.  And  then  I  could 
imagine  what  momentous  news  was  being  imparted  by  the 
captain,  which  no  American  ear  had  ever  heard,  that  Asia, 
Africa,  Europe  —  were  all  sunk ;  for  which  at  length  he  pays 
the  price,  and  is  seen  descending  the  ship's  side  with  his  bundle 
of  newspapers,  but  not  where  he  first  got  up,  for  these  arrivers 
do  not  stand  still  to  gossip,  —  and  he  hastes  away  with  steady 
sweeps  to  dispose  of  his  wares  to  the  highest  bidder,  and  we 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  177 

shall  erelong  read  something  startling,  —  "By  the  latest 

arrival/'  —  "by  the   good   ship  ."    — On   Sunday   I 

beheld  from  some  interior  hill  the  long  procession  of  vessels 
getting  to  sea,  reaching  from  the  city  wharves  through  the 
Narrows,  and  past  the  Hook,  quite  to  the  ocean-stream,  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  with  stately  march  and  silken  sails, 
all  counting  on  lucky  voyages,  but  each  time  some  of  the 
number,  no  doubt,  destined  to  go  to  Davy's  locker,  and  never 
come  on  this  coast  again.  —  And  again,  in  the  evening  of  a 
pleasant  day,  it  was  my  amusement  to  count  the  sails  in 
sight.  But  as  the  setting  sun  continually  brought  more  and 
more  to  light,  still  further  in  the  horizon,  the  last  count  always 
had  the  advantage,  till  by  the  time  the  last  rays  streamed 
over  the  sea,  I  had  doubled  and  trebled  my  first  number; 
though  I  could  no  longer  class  them  all  under  the  several 
heads  of  ships,  barques,  brigs,  schooners,  and  sloops,  but 
most  were  faint  generic  vessels  only.  And  then  the  temperate 
twilight  light,  perchance,  revealed  the  floating  home  of  some 
sailor  whose  thoughts  were  already  alienated  from  this  Amer- 
ican coast,  and  directed  towards  the  Europe  of  our  dreams. 
—  I  have  stood  upon  the  same  hill-top  when  a  thunder  shower 
rolling  down  from  the  Catskills  and  Highlands  passed  over 
the  island,  deluging  the  land,  and  when  it  had  suddenly  left 
us  in  sunshine,  have  seen  it  overtake  successively  with  its 
huge  shadow  and  dark  descending  wall  of  rain  the  vessels  in 
the  bay.  Their  bright  sails  were  suddenly  drooping  and  dark 
like  the  sides  of  barns,  and  they  seemed  to  shrink  before  the 
storm ;  while  still  far  beyond  them  on  the  sea,  through  this 
dark  veil,  gleamed  the  sunny  sails  of  those  vessels  which  the 
stonn  had  not  yet  reached.  —  And  at  midnight,  when  all 
around  and  overhead  was  darkness,  I  have  seen  a  field  of 
trembling  silvery  fight  far  out  on  the  sea,  the  reflection  of 
the  moonlight  from  the  ocean,  as  if  beyond  the  precincts  of 
our  night,  where  the  moon  traversed  a  cloudless  heaven,  — 
and  sometimes  a  dark  speck  in  its  midst,  where  some  fortunate 
vessel  was  pursuing  its  happy  voyage  by  night. 

But  to  us  river  sailors  the  sun  never  rose  out  of  ocean  waves, 
but  from  some  green  coppice,  and  went  down  behind  some  dark 
mountain  line.  We,  too,  were  but  dwellers  on  the  shore, 
like  the  bittern  of  the  morning,  and  our  pursuit  the  wrecks 
of  snails  and  cockles.  Nevertheless,  we  were  contented  to 
know  the  better  one  fair  particular  shore. 


178  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach, 

As  near  the  ocean's  edge  as  I  can  go, 
My  tardy  steps  its  waves  sometimes  o'erreach, 

Sometimes  I  stay  to  let  them  overflow. 

My  sole  employment  'tis,  and  scrupulous  care, 
To  place  my  gains  beyond  the  reach  of  tides, 

Each  smoother  pebble,  and  each  shell  more  rare, 
Which  ocean  kindly  to  my  hand  confides. 

I  have  but  few  companions  on  the  shore, 
They  scorn  the  strand  who  sail  upon  the  sea, 

Yet  oft  I  think  the  ocean  they've  sailed  o'er 
Is  deeper  known  upon  the  strand  to  me. 

The  middle  sea  contains  no  crimson  dulse, 
Its  deeper  waves  cast  up  no  pearls  to  view, 

Along  the  shore  my  hand  is  on  its  pulse, 
And  I  converse  with  many  a  shipwrecked  crew. 

The  small  houses  which  were  scattered  along  the  river  at 
intervals  of  a  mile  or  more,  were  commonly  out  of  sight  to  us, 
but  sometimes  when  we  rowed  near  the  shore,  we  heard  the 
peevish  note  of  a  hen,  or  some  slight  domestic  sound,  which 
betrayed  them.  The  lock-men's  houses  were  particularly 
well  placed,  retired,  and  high,  always  at  falls  or  rapids,  and 
commanding  the  pleasantest  reaches  of  the  river,  —  for 
it  is  generally  wider  and  more  lake-like  just  above  a  fall,  — 
and  there  they  wait  for  boats.  These  humble  dwellings, 
homely  and  sincere,  in  which  a  hearth  was  still  the  essential 
part,  were  more  pleasing  to  our  eyes  than  palaces  or  castles 
would  have  been.  In  the  noon  of  these  days,  as  we  have  said, 
we  occasionally  climbed  the  banks  and  approached  these 
houses,  to  get  a  glass  of  water  and  make  acquaintance  with 
their  inhabitants.  High  in  the  leafy  bank,  surrounded  com- 
monly by  a  small  patch  of  corn  and  beans,  squashes  and 
melons,  with  sometimes  a  graceful  hop-yard  on  one  side,  and 
some  running  vine  over  the  windows,  they  appeared  like  bee- 
hives set  to  gather  honey  for  a  summer.  I  have  not  read 
of  any  Arcadian  life  which  surpasses  the  actual  luxury  and 
serenity  of  these  New  England  dwellings.  For  the  outward 
gilding,  at  least,  the  age  is  golden  enough.  As  you  approach 
the  sunny  door-way,  awakening  the  echoes  by  your  steps, 
still  no  sound  from  these  barracks  of  repose,  and  you  fear 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  179 

that  the  gentlest  knock  may  seem  rude  to  the  oriental  dream- 
ers. The  door  is  opened,  perchance,  by  some  Yankee-Hindoo 
woman,  whose  small-voiced  but  sincere  hospitality,  out  of 
the  bottomless  depths  of  a  quiet  nature,  has  travelled  quite 
round  to  the  opposite  side,  and  fears  only  to  obtrude  its  kind- 
ness. You  step  over  the  white-scoured  floor  to  the  bright 
"dresser,"  lightly,  as  if  afraid  to  disturb  the  devotions  of 
the  household,  —  for  oriental  dynasties  appear  to  have  passed 
away  since  the  dinner  table  was  last  spread  here,  —  and 
thence  to  the  frequented  curb,  where  you  see  your  long-for- 
gotten, unshaven  face  at  the  bottom,  in  juxtaposition  with 
new-made  butter  and  the  trout  in  the  well.  "Perhaps  you 
would  like  some  molasses  and  ginger,"  suggests  the  faint 
noon  voice.  Sometimes  there  sits  the  brother  who  follows 
the  sea,  their  representative  man;  who  knows  only  how  far 
it  is  to  the  nearest  port,  no  more  distances,  all  the  rest  is  sea 
and  distant  capes,  —  patting  the  dog,  or  dandling  the  kitten 
in  arms  that  were  stretched  by  the  cable  and  the  oar,  pulling 
against  Boreas  or  the  trade-winds.  He  looks  up  at  the 
stranger,  half  pleased,  half  astonished,  with  a  mariner's  eye, 
as  if  he  were  a  dolphin  within  cast.  If  men  will  believe  it, 
sua  si  bona  ndrint,  there  are  no  more  quiet  Tempes,  nor  more 
poetic  and  Arcadian  lives,  than  may  be  lived  in  these  New 
England  dwellings.  We  thought  that  the  employment  of 
their  inhabitants  by  day  would  be  to  tend  the  flowers  and 
herds,  and  at  night,  like  the  shepherds  of  old,  to  cluster  and 
give  names  to  the  stars  from  the  river  banks. 

We  passed  a  large  and  densely  wooded  island  this  forenoon, 
between  Short's  and  Griffith's  Falls,  the  fairest  which  we  had 
met  with,  with  a  handsome  grove  of  elms  at  its  head.  If  it 
had  been  evening  we  should  have  been  glad  to  camp  there. 
Not  long  after  one  or  two  more  occurred.  The  boatmen 
told  us  that  the  current  had  recently  made  important  changes 
here.  An  island  always  pleases  my  imagination,  even  the 
smallest,  as  a  small  continent  and  integral  portion  of  the 
globe.  I  have  a  fancy  for  building  my  hut  on  one.  Even 
a  bare  grassy  isle  which  I  can  see  entirely  over  at  a  glance, 
has  some  undefined  and  mysterious  charm  for  me.  It  is 
commonly  the  offspring  of  the  junction  of  two  rivers,  whose 
currents  bring  down  and  deposit  their  respective  sands  in 
the  eddy  at  their  confluence,  as  it  were  the  womb  of  a  con- 
tinent.   By  what  a  delicate  and  far-fetched  contribution 


180  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

every  island  is  made!  What  an  enterprise  of  Nature  thus 
to  lay  the  foundations  of  and  to  build  up  the  future  continent, 
of  golden  and  silver  sands  and  the  ruins  of  forests,  with  ant- 
like industry!  Pindar  gives  the  following  account  of  the 
origin  of  Thera,  whence,  in  after  times,  Libyan  Cyrene  was 
settled  by  Battus.  Triton,  in  the  form  of  Eurypalus,  presents 
a  clod  to  Euphemus,  one  of  the  Argonauts,  as  they  are  about 
to  return  home.  — 

"  He  knew  of  our  haste, 
And  immediately  seizing  a  clod 
With  his  right  hand,  strove  to  give  it 
As  a  chance  stranger's  gift. 

Nor  did  the  hero  disregard  him,  but  leaping  on  the  shore, 
Stretching  hand  to  hand, 
Received  the  mystic  clod. 
But  I  hear  it  sinking  from  the  deck, 
Go  with  the  sea  brine 
At  evening,  accompanying  the  watery  sea. 
Often  indeed  I  urged  the  careless 
Menials  to  guard  it,  but  their  minds  forgot. 
And  now  in  this  island  the  imperishable  seed  of  spacious  Libya 
Is  spilled  before  its  hour." 

It  is  a  beautiful  fable,  also  related  by  Pindar,  how  Helius, 
or  the  Sun,  looked  down  into  the  sea  one  day,  —  when  per- 
chance its  rays  were  first  reflected  from  some  increasing 
glittering  sand-bar,  —  and  saw  the  fair  and  fruitful  island 
of  Rhodes 

"Springing  up  from  the  bottom, 
Capable  of  feeding  many  men  and  suitable  for  flocks;" 

and  at  the  nod  of  Zeus, 

"The  island  sprang  from  the  watery 

Sea ;  and  the  Genial  Father  of  penetrating  beams, 
Ruler  of  fire-breathing  horses,  has  it." 

The  shifting  islands!  who  would  not  be  willing  that  his 
house  should  be  undermined  by  such  a  foe !  The  inhabitants 
of  an  island  can  tell  what  currents  formed  the  land  which  he 
cultivates ;  and  his  earth  is  still  being  created  or  destroyed. 
There  before  his  door,  perchance,  still  empties  the  stream 
which  brought  down  the  material  of  his  farm  ages  before, 
and  is  still  bringing  it  down  or  washing  it  away,  —  the  grace- 
ful, gentle  robber ! 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  181 

Not  long  after  this  we  saw  the  Piscataquoag,  or  Sparkling 
Water,  emptying  in  on  our  left,  and  heard  the  Falls  of  Amos- 
keag  above.  Large  quantities  of  lumber,  as  we  read  in  the 
gazetteer,  were  still  annually  floated  down  the  Piscataquoag 
to  the  Merrimack,  and  there  are  many  fine  mill  privileges 
on  it.  Just  about  the  mouth  of  this  river  we  passed  the 
artificial  falls  where  the  canals  of  the  Manchester  Manu- 
facturing Company  discharge  themselves  into  the  Merri- 
mack. They  are  striking  enough  to  have  a  name,  and,  with 
the  scenery  of  a  Bashpish,  would  be  visited  from  far  and 
near.  The  water  falls  thirty  or  forty  feet  over  seven  or 
eight  steep  and  narrow  terraces  of  stone,  probably  to  break 
its  force,  and  is  converted  into  one  mass  of  foam.  This 
canal  water  did  not  seem  to  be  the  worse  for  the  wear,  but 
foamed  and  fumed  as  purely,  and  boomed  as  savagely  and 
impressively,  as  a  mountain  torrent,  and  though  it  came 
from  under  a  factory,  we  saw  a  rainbow  here.  These  are 
now  the  Amoskeag  Falls,  removed  a  mile  down  stream. 
But  we  did  not  tarry  to  examine  them  minutely,  making 
haste  to  get  past  the  village  here  collected,  and  out  of  hearing 
of  the  hammer  which  was  laying  the  foundation  of  another 
Lowell  on  the  banks.  At  the  time  of  our  voyage  Manchester 
was  a  village  of  about  two  thousand  inhabitants,  where  we 
landed  for  a  moment  to  get  some  cool  water,  and  where  an 
inhabitant  told  us  that  he  was  accustomed  to  go  across  the 
river  into  Goffstown  for  his  water.  But  now,  after  nine 
years,  as  I  have  been  told  and  indeed  have  witnessed,  it 
contains  sixteen  thousand  inhabitants.  From  a  hill  on  the 
road  between  Goffstown  and  Hooksett,  four  miles  distant, 
I  have  since  seen  a  thunder  shower  pass  over,  and  the  sun 
break  out  and  shine  on  a  city  there,  where  I  had  landed  nine 
years  before  in  the  fields  to  get  a  draught  of  water  ;  and 
there  was  waving  a  flag  of  its  museum,  —  where  "  the  only 
perfect  skeleton  of  a  Greenland  or  river  whale  in  the  United 
States  "  was  to  be  seen,  and  I  also  read  in  its  directory  of 
a  "  Manchester  Athenseum  and  Gallery  of  the  Fine  Arts." 

According  to  the  gazetteer,  the  descent  of  Amoskeag 
Falls,  which  are  the  most  considerable  in  the  Merrimack, 
is  fifty-four  feet  in  half  a  mile.  We  locked  ourselves  through 
here  with  much  ado,  surmounting  the  successive  watery 
steps  of  this  river's  stair-case  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of 
villagers,  jumping  into  the  canal,  to  their  amusement,  to 


182  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD  ' 

save  our  boat  from  upsetting,  and  consuming  much  river 
water  in  our  service.  Amoskeag,  or  Namaskeak,  is  said 
to  mean  "  great  fishing  place."  It  was  hereabouts  that 
the  Sachem  Wannalancet  resided.  Tradition  says  that  his 
tribe,  when  at  war  with  the  Mohawks,  concealed  their 
provisions  in  the  cavities  of  the  rocks  in  the  upper  part  of 
these  falls.  The  Indians  who  hid  their  provisions  in  these 
holes,  and  affirmed  "  that  God  had  cut  them  out  for  that 
purpose,"  understood  their  origin  and  use  better  than  the 
Royal  Society,  who  in  their  Transactions,  in  the  last  century, 
speaking  of  these  very  holes,  declare  that  "  they  seem  plainly 
to  be  artificial."  Similar  "  pot-holes  "  may  be  seen  at  the 
Stone  Flume  on  this  river,  on  the  Ottaway,  at  Bellows'  Falls 
on  the  Connecticut,  and  in  the  limestone  rock  at  Shel- 
burne  Falls  on  Deerfield  river  in  Massachusetts,  and  more 
or  less  generally  about  all  falls.  Perhaps  the  most  remarkable 
curiosity  of  this  kind  in  New  England  is  the  well-known 
Basin  on  the  Pemigewasset,  one  of  the  head-waters  of  this 
river,  twenty  by  thirty  feet  in  extent  and  proportionably 
deep,  with  a  smooth  and  rounded  brim,  and  filled  with  a  cold, 
pellucid  and  greenish  water.  At  Amoskeag^  the  river  is 
divided  into  many  separate  torrentr^ancTTrickling  rills  by 
the  rocks,  and  its  volume  is  so  much  reduced  by  the  drain 
of  the  canals  that  it  does  not  fill  its  bed.  There  are  many 
pot-holes  here  on  a  rocky  island  which  the  river  washes  over 
in  high  freshets.  As  at  Shelburne  Falls,  where  I  first  observed 
them,  they  are  from  one  foot  to  four  or  five  in  diameter,  and 
as  many  in  depth,  perfectly  round  and  regular,  with  smooth 
and  gracefully  curved  brims,  like  goblets.  Their  origin  is 
apparent  to  the  most  careless  observer.  A  stone  which 
the  current  has  washed  down,  meeting  with  obstacles,  re- 
volves as  on  a  pivot  where  it  lies,  gradually  sinking  in  the 
course  of  centuries  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  rock,  and  in 
new  freshets  receiving  the  aid  of  fresh  stones  which  are 
drawn  into  this  trap  and  doomed  to  revolve  there  for  an 
indefinite  period,  doing  Sisyphus-like  penance  for  stony  sins, 
until  they  either  wear  out,  or  wear  through  the  bottom  of 
their  prison,  or  else  are  released  by  some  revolution  of  nature. 
There  lie  the  stones  of  various  sizes,  from  a  pebble  to  a  foot 
or  two  in  diameter,  some  of  which  have  rested  from  their 
labor  only  since  the  spring,  and  some  higher  up  which  have 
lain  still  and  dry  for  ages,  —  we  notice  some  here  at  least 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  183 

sixteen  feet  above  the  present  level  of  the  water,  —  while 
others  are  still  revolving,  and  enjoy  no  respite  at  any  season. 
In  one  instance,  at  Shelburne  Falls,  they  have  worn  quite 
through  the  rock,  so  that  a  portion  of  the  river  leaks  through 
in  anticipation  of  the  fall.  Some  of  these  pot-holes  at 
Amoskeag,  in  a  very  hard  brown  stone,  had  an  oblong  cylin- 
drical stone  of  the  same  material  loosely  fitting  them.  One, 
as  much  as  fifteen  feet  deep  and  seven  or  eight  in  diameter, 
which  was  worn  quite  through  to  the  water,  had  a  huge  rock 
of  the  same  material,  smooth  but  of  irregular  form,  lodged  in 
it.  Everywhere  there  were  the  rudiments  or  the  wrecks 
of  a  dimple  in  the  rock ;  the  rocky  shells  of  whirlpools.  As 
if,  by  force  of  example  and  sympathy  after  so  many  lessons, 
the  rocks,  the  hardest  material,  had  been  endeavoring  to 
whirl  or  flow  into  the  forms  of  the  most  fluid.  The  finest 
workers  in  stone  are  not  copper  or  steel  tools,  but  the  gentle 
touches  of  air  and  water  working  at  their  leisure  with  a 
liberal  allowance  of  time. 

Not  only  have  some  of  these  basins  been  forming  for 
countless  ages,  but  others  exist  which  must  have  been  com- 
pleted in  a  former  geological  period.  There  are  some,  we 
are  told,  in  the  town  of  Canaan  in  this  State,  with  the  stones 
still  in  them,  on  the  height  of  land  between  the  Merrimack 
and  Connecticut,  and  nearly  a  thousand  feet  above  these 
rivers,  proving  that  the  mountains  and  the  rivers  have 
changed  places.  There  lie  the  stones  which  completed 
their  revolutions  perhaps  before  thoughts  began  to  revolve 
in  the  brain  of  man.  The  periods  of  Hindoo  and  Chinese 
history,  though  they  reach  back  to  the  time  when  the  race 
of  mortals  is  confounded  with  the  race  of  gods,  are  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  periods  which  these  stones  have  inscribed. 
That  which  commenced  a  rock  when  time  was  young,  shall 
conclude  a  pebble  in  the  unequal  contest.  With  such  es- 
pense  of  time  and  natural  forces  are  our  very  paving  stones 
produced.  They  teach  us  lessons,  these  dumb  workers  ; 
verily  there  are  "  sermons  in  stones  and  books  in  the  run- 
ning streams."  In  these  very  holes  the  Indians  hid  their 
provisions  ;  but  now  there  is  no  bread,  but  only  its  old 
neighbor  stones  at  the  bottom.  Who  knows  how  many  races 
they  have  served  thus?  By  as  simple  a  law,  some  accidental 
by-law,  perchance,  our  system  itself  was  made  ready  for  its 
inhabitants. 


184  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

These,  and  such  as  these,  must  be  our  antiquities,  for  lack 
of  human  vestiges.  The  monuments  of  heroes  and  the 
temples  of  the  gods  which  may  once  have  stood  on  the  banks 
of  this  river,  are  now,  at  any  rate,  returned  to  dust  and 
primitive  soil.  The  murmur  of  unchronicled  nations  has 
died  away  along  these  shores,  and  once  more  Lowell  and 
Manchester  are  on  the  trail  of  the  Indian. 

The  fact  that  Romans  once  inhabited  her  reflects  no  little 
dignity  on  Nature  herself;  that  from  some  particular  hill 
the  Roman  once  looked  out  on  the  sea.  She  need  not  be 
ashamed  of  the  vestiges  of  her  children.  How  gladly  the 
antiquary  informs  us  that  their  vessels  penetrated  into  this 
frith,  or  up  that  river  of  some  remote  isle !  Their  military 
monuments  still  remain  on  the  hills  and  under  the  sod  of  the 
valleys.  The  oft-repeated  Roman  story  is  written  in  still 
legible  characters  in  every  quarter  of  the  old  world,  and  but 
to-day,  perchance,  a  new  coin  is  dug  up  whose  inscription 
repeats  and  confirms  their  fame.  Some  "  Judcea  Capta," 
with  a  woman  mourning  under  a  palm  tree,  with  silent 
argument  and  demonstration  confirms  the  pages  of  history. 

"Rome  living  was  the  world's  sole  ornament; 
And  dead  is  now  the  world's  sole  monument." 

***** 

"With  her  own  weight  down  pressed  now  she  lies, 
And  by  her  heaps  her  hugeness  testifies." 

If  one  doubts  whether  Grecian  valor  and  patriotism  are 
not  a  fiction  of  the  poets,  he  may  go  to  Athens  and  see  still 
upon  the  walls  of  the  temple  of  Minerva  the  circular  marks 
made  by  the  shields  taken  from  the  enemy  in  the  Persian 
war,  which  were  suspended  there.  We  have  not  far  to  seek 
for  living  and  unquestionable  evidence.  The  very  dust 
takes  shape  and  confirms  some  story  which  we  had  read. 
As  Fuller  said,  commenting  on  the  zeal  of  Camden,  "  A 
broken  urn  is  a  whole  evidence;  or  an  old  gate  still 
surviving  out  of  which  the  city  is  run  out."  When  Solon 
endeavored  to  prove  that  Salamis  had  formerly  belonged  to 
the  Athenians,  and  not  to  the  Megareans,  he  caused  the 
tombs  to  be  opened,  and  showed  that  the  inhabitants  of 
Salamis  turned  the  faces  of  their  dead  to  the  same  side  with 
the  Athenians,  but  the  Megareans  to  the  opposite  side. 
There  they  were  to  be  interrogated. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  185 

Some  minds  are  as  little  logical  or  argumentative  as  nature ; 
they  can  offer  no  reason  or  "  guess,"  but  they  exhibit  the 
solemn  and  incontrovertible  fact.  If  a  historical  question 
arises,  they  cause  the  tombs  to  be  opened.  Their  silent  and 
practical  logic  convinces  the  reason  and  the  understanding 
at  the  same  time.  Of  such  sort  is  always  the  only  pertinent 
question  and  the  only  unanswerable  reply. 

Our  own  country  furnishes  antiquities  as  ancient  and 
durable,  and  as  useful,  as  any  ;  rocks  at  least  as  well  covered 
with  moss,  and  a  soil  which,  if  it  is  virgin,  is  but  virgin  mould, 
the  very  dust  of  nature.  What  if  we  cannot  read  Rome, 
or  Greece,  Etruria,  or  Carthage,  or  Egypt,  or  Babylon,  on 
these ;  are  our  cliffs  bare  ?  The  lichen  on  the  rocks  is  a  rude 
and  simple  shield  which  beginning  and  imperfect  Nature 
suspended  there.  Still  hangs  her  wrinkled  trophy.  And 
here  too  the  poet's  eye  may  still  detect  the  brazen  nails  which 
fastened  Time's  inscriptions,  and  if  he  has  the  gift,  decipher 
them  by  this  clue.  The  walls  that  fence  our  fields,  as  well 
as  modern  Rome,  and  not  less  the  Parthenon  itself,  are  all 
built  of  ruins.  Here  may  be  heard  the  din  of  rivers,  and 
ancient  winds  which  have  long  since  lost  their  names  sough 
through  our  woods ;  —  the  first  faint  sounds  of  spring,  older 
than  the  summer  of  Athenian  glory,  the  titmouse  lisping  in 
the  wood,  the  jay's  scream  and  blue-bird's  warble,  and  the 
hum  of 

"bees  that  fly 
About  the  laughing  blossoms  of  sallowy." 

Here  is  the  gray  dawn  for  antiquity,  and  our  to-morrow's 
future  should  be  at  least  paulo-post  to  theirs  which  we  have 
put  behind  us.  There  are  the  red-maple  and  birchen  leaves, 
old  runes  which  are  not  yet  deciphered;  catkins,  pine- 
cones,  vines,  oak-leaves,  and  acorns ;  the  very  things  them- 
selves, and  not  their  forms  in  stone,  —  so  much  the  more 
ancient  and  venerable.  And  even  to  the  current  summer 
there  has  come  down  tradition  of  a  hoary-headed  master  of 
all  art,  who  once  filled  every  field  and  grove  with  statues 
and  god-like  architecture,  of  every  design  which  Greece  has 
lately  copied ;  whose  ruins  are  now  mingled  with  the  dust, 
and  not  one  block  remains  upon  another.  The  century  sun 
and  unwearied  rain  have  wasted  them,  till  not  one  fragment 
from  that  quarry  now  exists ;  and  poets  perchance  will  feign 
that  gods  sent  down  the  material  from  heaven. 


186  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

What  though  the  traveller  tell  us  of  the  ruins  of  Egypt, 
are  we  so  sick  or  idle,  that  we  must  sacrifice  our  America  and 
to-day  to  some  man's  ill-remembered  and  indolent  story? 
Carnac  and  Luxor  are  but  names,  or  if  their  skeletons  re- 
main, still  more  desert  sand,  and  at  length  a  wave  of  the 
Mediterranean  sea,  are  needed  to  wash  away  the  filth  that 
attaches  to  their  grandeur.  Carnac !  Carnac !  here  is  Carnac 
for  me.    I  behold  the  columns  of  a  larger  and  purer  temple. 

This  is  my  Carnac,  whose  unmeasured  dome 
Shelters  the  measuring  art  and  measurer's  home. 
Behold  these  flowers,  let  us  be  up  with  time, 
Not  dreaming  of  three  thousand  years  ago, 
Erect  ourselves  and  let  those  columns  lie, 
Not  stoop  to  raise  a  foil  against  the  sky. 
Where  is  the  spirit  of  that  time  but  in 
This  present  day,  perchance  this  present  line? 
Three  thousand  years  ago  are  not  agone, 
They  are  still  lingering  in  this  summer  morn, 
And  Memnon's  Mother  sprightly  greets  us  now, 
Wearing  her  youthful  radiance  on  her  brow. 
If  Carnac's  columns  still  stand  on  the  plain, 
To  enjoy  our  opportunities  they  remain. 

In  these  parts  dwelt  the  famous  Sachem  Passaconaway, 
who  was  seen  by  Gookin  u  at  Pawtucket,  when  he  was  about 
one  hundred  and  twenty  years  old."  He  was  reputed  a  wise 
man  and  a  powwow,  and  restrained  his  people  from  going 
to  war  with  the  English.  They  believed  "that  he  could 
make  water  burn,  rocks  move,  and  trees  dance,  and  meta- 
morphose himself  into  a  flaming  man;  that  in  winter  he 
could  raise  a  green  leaf  out  of  the  ashes  of  a  dry  one,  and 
produce  a  living  snake  from  the  skin  of  a  dead  one."  In 
1660,  according  to  Gookin,  at  a  great  feast  and  dance,  he 
made  his  farewell  speech  to  his  people,  in  which  he  said,  that 
as  he  was  not  likely  to  see  them  met  together  again,  he  would 
leave  them  this  word  of  advice,  to  take  heed  how  they  quar- 
relled with  their  English  neighbors,  for  though  they  might 
do  them  much  mischief  at  first,  it  would  prove  the  means 
of  their  own  destruction.  He  himself,  he  said,  had  been 
as  much  an  enemy  to  the  English  at  their  first  coming  as 
any,  and  had  used  all  his  arts  to  destroy  them,  or  at  least 
to  prevent  their  settlement,  but  could  by  no  means  effect 
it.    Gookin  thought  that  he  "  possibly  might  have  such  a 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  187 

kind  of  spirit  upon  him  as  was  upon  Balaam  who  in  xxiii. 
Numbers,  23,  said  '  Surely  there  is  no  enchantment  against 
Jacob,  neither  is  there  any  divination  against  Israel.'  " 
His  son  Wannalancet  carefully  followed  his  advice,  and  when 
Philip's  war  broke  out,  he  withdrew  his  followers  to  Pena- 
cook,  now  Concord  in  New  Hampshire,  from  the  scene  of 
the  war.  On  his  return  afterwards  he  visited  the  minister 
of  Chelmsford,  and,  as  is  stated  in  the  history  of  that  town, 
"  wished  to  know  whether  Chelmsford  had  suffered  much  dur- 
ing the  war ;  and  being  informed  that  it  had  not,  and  that  God 
should  be  thanked  for  it,  Wannalancet  replied,  '  Me  next.'  " 

Manchester  was  the  residence  of  John  Stark,  a  hero  of 
two  wars,  and  survivor  of  a  third,  and  at  his  death  the  last 
but  one  of  the  American  generals  of  the  Revolution.  He  was 
born  in  the  adjoining  town  of  Londonderry,  then  Nut  field, 
in  1728.  As  early  as  1752,  he  was  taken  prisoner  by  the 
Indians  while  hunting  in  the  wilderness  near  Baker's  river ; 
he  performed  notable  service  as  a  captain  of  rangers  in  the 
French  war ;  commanded  a  regiment  of  the  New  Hampshire 
militia  at  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill;  and  fought  and  won 
the  battle  of  Bennington  in  1777.  He  was  past  service  in 
the  last  war,  and  died  here  in  1822,  at  the  age  of  94.  His 
monument  stands  upon  the  second  bank  of  the  river,  about 
a  mile  and  a  half  above  the  falls,  and  commands  a  prospect 
several  miles  up  and  down  the  Merrimack.  It  suggested 
how  much  more  impressive  in  the  landscape  is  the  tomb  of 
a  hero  than  the  dwellings  of  the  inglorious  living.  Who  is 
most  dead,  —  a  hero  by  whose  monument  you  stand,  or  his 
descendants  of  whom  you  have  never  heard? 

The  graves  of  Passaconaway  and  Wannalancet  are  marked 
by  no  monument  on  the  bank  of  their  native  river. 

Every  town  which  we  passed,  if  we  may  believe  the 
gazetteer,  had  been  the  residence  of  some  great  man.  But 
though  we  knocked  at  many  doors,  and  even  made  particular 
inquiries,  we  could  not  find  that  there  were  any  now  living. 
Under  the  head  of  Litchfield  we  read,  — 

"  The  Hon.  Wyseman  Clagett  closed  his  life  in  this  town." 
According  to  another,  "  He  was  a  classical  scholar,  a  good 
lawyer,  a  wit,  and  a  poet."  We  saw  his  old  gray  house  just 
below  the  Great  Nesenkeag  Brook.  —  Under  the  head  of 
Merrimack,  —  "  Hon.  Matthew  Thornton,  one  of  the  signers 


188  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

of  the  Declaration  of  American  Independence,  resided  many- 
years  in  this  town."     His  house  too  we  saw  from  the  river. 

—  "  Dr.  Jonathan  Gove,  a  man  distinguished  for  his  ur- 
baDity,  his  talents  and  professional  skill,  resided  in  this  town 
{Goffstown].  He  was  one  of  the  oldest  practitioners  of 
medicine  in  the  county.  He  was  many  years  an  active 
member  of  the  legislature." — "  Hon.  Robert  Means,  who 
died  Jan.  24,  1823,  at  the  age  of  80,  was  for  a  long  period 
a  resident  in  Amherst.  He  was  a  native  of  Ireland.  In 
1764  he  came  to  this  country,  where  by  his  industry  and 
application  to  business,  he  acquired  a  large  property,  and 
great  respect."  —  "  William  Stinson,  [one  of  the  first  settlers 
of  Dunbarton,]  born  in  Ireland,  came  to  Londonderry  with 
his  father.  He  was  much  respected  and  was  a  useful  man. 
James  Rogers  was  from  Ireland,  and  father  to  Major  Robert 
Rogers.  He  was  shot  in  the  woods,  being  mistaken  for  a 
bear."  —  "  Rev.  Matthew  Clark,  second  minister  of  London- 
derry, was  a  native  of  Ireland,  who  had  in  early  life  been  an 
officer  in  the  army,  and  distinguished  himself  in  the  defence 
of  the  city  of  Londonderry,  when  besieged  by  the  army  of 
King  James  II.,  a.d.  1688-9.  He  afterwards  relinquished 
a  military  life  for  the  clerical  profession.  He  possessed  a 
strong  mind,  marked  by  a  considerable  degree  of  eccentricity. 
He  died  Jan.  25,  1735,  and  was  borne  to  the  grave,  at  his 
particular  request,  by  his  former  companions  in  arms,  of 
whom  there  were  a  considerable  number  among  the  early 
settlers  of  this  town;  several  of  whom  had  been  made  free 
from  taxes  throughout  the  British  dominions  by  King  Wil- 
liam, for  their  bravery  in  that  memorable  siege."  —  Col. 
George  Reid  and  Capt.  David  M'Clary,  also  citizens  of 
Londonderry,    were    "  distinguished    and    brave "    officers. 

—  "  Major  Andrew  M'Clary,  a  native  of  this  town  [Epsom], 
fell  at  the  battle  of  Breed's  Hill."  —  Many  of  these  heroes, 
like  the  illustrious  Roman,  were  plowing  when  the  news  of 
the  massacre  at  Lexington  arrived,  and  straightway  left 
their  plows  in  the  furrow,  and  repaired  to  the  scene  of  action. 
Some  miles  from  where  we  now  were,  there  once  stood  a 
guide-board  which  said,  "  3  miles  to  Squire  MacGaw's."  — 

But  generally  speaking,  the  land  is  now,  at  any  rate,  very 
barren  of  men,  and  we  doubt  if  there  are  as  many  hundreds 
as  we  read  of.    It  may  be  that  we  stood  too  near. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  189 

Uncannunuc  Mountain  in  Goffstown  was  visible  from 
Amoskeag,  five  or  six  miles  westward.  Its  name  is  said  to 
mean  "  The  Two  Breasts,"  there  being  two  eminences  some 
distance  apart.  The  highest,  which  is  about  fourteen 
hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  probably  affords  a  more  exten- 
sive view  of  the  Merrimack  valley  and  the  adjacent  country 
than  any  other  hill,  though  it  is  somewhat  obstructed  by 
woods.  Only  a  few  short  reaches  of  the  river  are  visible, 
but  you  can  trace  its  course  far  down  stream  by  the  sandy 
tracts  on  its  banks. 

|  A  little  south  of  Uncannunuc,  about  sixty  years  ago,  as 
the  story  goes,  an  old  woman  who  went  out  to  gather  penny- 
royal, tript  her  foot  in  the  bail  of  a  small  brass  kettle  in  the 
dead  grass  and  bushes.  Some  say  that  flints  and  charcoal  and 
some  traces  of  a  camp  were  also  found.  This  kettle,  holding 
about  four  quarts,  is  still  preserved  and  used  to  dye  thread 
in.  It  is  supposed  to  have  belonged  to  some  old  French  or 
Indian  hunter,  who  was  killed  in  one  of  his  hunting  or  scout- 
ing excursions,  and  so  never  returned  to  look  after  his  kettle. 

But  we  were  most  interested  to  hear  of  the  pennyroyal, 
it  is  so  soothing  to  be  reminded  that  wild  nature  produces 
anything  ready  for  the  use  of  man.  Men  know  that  some- 
thing is  good.  One  says  that  it  is  yellow-dock,  another  that 
it  is  bitter-sweet,  another  that  it  is  slippery-elm  bark,  bur- 
dock, catnip,  calamint,  elicampane,  thoroughwort,  or 
pennyroyal.  A  man  may  esteem  himself  happy  when  that 
which  is  his  food  is  also  his  medicine.  There  is  no  kind  of 
herb  that  grows,  but  somebody  or  other  says  that  it  is  good. 
I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  It  reminds  me  of  the  first  chapter 
of  Genesis.  But  how  should  they  know  that  it  is  good? 
That  is  the  mystery  to  me.  I  am  always  agreeably  dis- 
appointed; it  is  incredible  that  they  should  have  found  it 
out.  Since  all  things  are  good,  men  fail  at  last  to  distin- 
guish which  is  the  bane,  and  which  the  antidote.  There 
are  sure  to  be  two  prescriptions  diametrically  opposite. 
Stuff  a  cold  and  starve  a  cold  are  but  two  ways.  They  are 
the  two  practices,  both  always  in  full  blast.  Yet  you  must 
take  advice  of  the  one  school  as  if  there  was  no  other.  In 
respect  to  religion  and  the  healing  art,  all  nations  are  still 
in  a  state  of  barbarism.  In  the  most  civilized  countries  the 
priest  is  still  but  a  Powwow,  and  the  physician  a  Great 
Medicine.    Consider   the    deference   which    is    everywhere 


190  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

paid  to  a  doctor's  opinion.  Nothing  more  strikingly  betrays 
the  credulity  of  mankind  than  medicine.  Quackery  is 
a  thing  universal,  and  universally  successful.  In  this  case 
it  becomes  literally  true  that  no  imposition  is  too  great  for 
the  credulity  of  men.  Priests  and  physicians  should  never 
look  one  another  in  the  face.  They  have  no  common 
ground,  nor  is  there  any  to  mediate  between  them.  When 
the  one  comes,  the  other  goes.  They  could  not  come  to- 
gether without  laughter,  or  a  significant  silence,  for  the 
one's  profession  is  a  satire  on  the  other's,  and  either's  success 
would  be  the  other's  failure.  It  is  wonderful  that  the  phy- 
sician should  ever  die,  and  that  the  priest  should  ever  live. 
Why  is  it  that  the  priest  is  never  called  to  consult  with  the 
physician?  It  is  because  men  believe  practically  that  matter 
is  independent  of  spirit.  But  what  is  quackery?  It  is 
commonly  an  attempt  to  cure  the  diseases  of  a  man  by 
addressing  his  body  alone.  There  is  need  of  a  physician 
who  shall  minister  to  both  soul  and  body  at  once,  that  is, 
to  man.    Now  he  falls  between  two  stools. 

After  passing  through  the  locks,  we  had  poled  ourselves 
through  the  canal  here,  about  half  a  mile  in  length,  to  the 
boatable  part  of  the  river.  Above  Amoskeag  the  river 
spreads  out  into  a  lake  reaching  a  mile  or  two  without  a  bend. 
There  were  many  canal  boats  here  bound  up  to  Hooksett, 
about  eight  miles,  and  as  they  were  going  up  empty  with 
a  fair  wind,  one  boatman  offered  to  take  us  in  tow  if  we 
would  wait.  But  when  we  came  alongside,  we  found  that 
they  meant  to  take  us  on  board,  since  otherwise  we  should 
clog  their  motions  too  much  ;  but  as  our  -boat  was  too  heavy 
to  be  lifted  aboard,  we  pursued  our  way  up  the  stream,  as 
before,  while  the  boatmen  were  at  their  dinner,  and  came  to 
anchor  at  length  under  some  alders  on  the  opposite  shore, 
where  we  could  take  our  lunch.  Though  far  on  one  side, 
every  sound  was  wafted  over  to  us  from  the  opposite  bank, 
and  from  the  harbor  of  the  canal,  and  we  could  see  every- 
thing that  passed.  By  and  by  came  several  canal  boats, 
at  intervals  of  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  standing  up  to  Hooksett 
with  a  light  breeze,  and  one  by  one  disappeared  round  a 
point  above.  With  their  broad  sails  set,  they  moved  slowly 
up  the  stream  in  the  sluggish  and  fitful  breeze,  like  one- 
winged  antediluvian  birds,  and  as  if  impelled  by  some 
mysterious  counter  current.     It  was  a  grand  motion,  so 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  191 

slow  and  stately,  this  "  standing  out,"  as  the  phrase  is, 
expressing  the  gradual  and  steady  progress  of  a  vessel,  as 
if  it  were  by  mere  rectitude  and  disposition,  without  shuffling. 
Their  sails,  which  stood  so  still,  were  like  chips  cast  into  the 
current  of  the  air  to  show  which  way  it  set.  At  length  the 
boat  which  we  had  spoken  came  along,  keeping  the  middle 
of  the  stream,  and  when  within  speaking  distance  the  steers- 
men called  out  ironically  to  say,  that  if  we  would  come 
alongside  now  he  would  take  us  in  tow;  but  not  heeding 
his  taunt,  we  still  loitered  in  the  shade  till  we  had  finished 
our  lunch,  and  when  the  last  boat  had  disappeared  round 
the  point  with  flapping  sail,  for  the  breeze  had  now  sunk 
to  a  zephyr,  with  our  own  sails  set,  and  plying  our  oars,  we 
shot  rapidly  up  the  stream  in  pursuit,  and  as  we  glided  close 
alongside,  while  they  were  vainly  invoking  iEolus  to  their 
aid,  we  returned  their  compliment  by  proposing,  if  they 
would  throw  us  a  rope,  to  "  take  them  in  tow,"  to  which 
these  Merrimack  sailors  had  no  suitable  answer  ready. 
Thus  we  gradually  overtook  each  boat  in  succession  until 
we  had  the  river  to  ourselves  again. 

Our  course  this  afternoon  was  between  Manchester  and 
Goffstown. 

While  we  float  here,  far  from  that  tributary  stream  on 
whose  banks  our  friends  and  kindred  dwell,  our  thoughts, 
like  the  stars,  come  out  of  their  horizon  still;  for  there 
circulates  a  finer  blood  than  Lavoisier  has  discovered  the 
laws  of,  —  the  blood,  not  of  kindred  merely,  but  of  kindness, 
whose  pulse  still  beats  at  any  distance  and  forever.  After 
years  of  vain  familiarity,  some  distant  gesture  or  unconscious 
behavior,  which  we  remember,  speaks  to  us  with  more  em- 
phasis than  the  wisest  or  kindest  words.  We  are  sometimes 
made  aware  of  a  kindness  long  passed,  and  realize  that  there 
have  been  times  when  our  friends'  thoughts  of  us  were  of  so 
pure  and  lofty  a  character  that  they  passed  over  us  like  the 
winds  of  heaven  unnoticed;  when  they  treated  us  not  as 
what  we  were,  but  as  what  we  aspired  to  be.  There  has 
just  reached  us,  it  may  be,  the  nobleness  of  some  such  silent 
behavior,  not  to  be  forgotten,  not  to  be  remembered,  and 
we  shudder  to  think  how  it  fell  on  us  cold,  though  in  some 
true  but  tardy  hour  we  endeavor  to  wipe  off  these  scores. 

In  my  experience,  persons,  when  they  are  made  the  subject 
of  conversation,  though  with  a  friend,  are  commonly  the 


192  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

most  prosaic  and  trivial  of  facts.  The  universe  seems  bank- 
rupt as  soon  as  we  begin  to  discuss  the  character  of  indi- 
viduals. Our  discourse  all  runs  to  slander,  and  our  limits 
grow  narrower  as  we  advance.  How  is  it  that  we  are 
impelled  to  treat  our  old  friends  so  ill  when  we  obtain 
new  ones?  The  housekeeper  says,  I  never  had  any  new 
crockery  in  my  life  but  I  began  to  break  the  old.  I  say, 
let  us  speak  of  mushrooms  and  forest  trees  rather.  Yet  we 
can  sometimes  afford  to  remember  them  in  private.  — 

Lately,  alas,  I  knew  a  gentle  boy, 

Whose  features  all  were  cast  in  Virtue's  mould, 

As  one  she  had  designed  for  Beauty's  toy, 

But  after  manned  him  for  her  own  stronghold. 

On  every  side  he  open  was  as  day, 

That  you  might  see  no  lack  of  strength  within, 

For  walls  and  ports  do  only  serve  alway 
For  a  pretence  to  feebleness  and  sin. 

Say  not  that  Caesar  was  victorious, 

With  toil  and  strife  who  stormed  the  House  of  Fame, 
In  other  sense  this  youth  was  glorious, 

Himself  a  kingdom  wheresoe'er  he  came. 

No  strength  went  out  to  get  him  victory. 

When  all  was  income  of  its  own  accord ; 
For  where  he  went  none  other  was  to  see, 

But  all  were  parcel  of  their  noble  lord. 

He  forayed  like  the  subtile  haze  of  summer, 
That  stilly  shows  fresh  landscapes  to  our  eyes, 

And  revolutions  works  without  a  murmur, 
Or  rustling  of  a  leaf  beneath  the  skies. 

So  was  I  taken  unawares  by  this, 

I  quite  forgot  my  homage  to  confess ; 
Yet  now  am  forced  to  know,  though  hard  it  is, 

I  might  have  loved  him  had  I  loved  him  less. 

Each  moment  as  we  nearer  drew  to  each, 

A  stern  respect  withheld  us  further  yet, 
So  that  we  seemed  beyond  each  other's  reach, 

And  less  acquainted  than  when  first  we  met. 


AND   MERRIMACK   RIVERS  193 

We  two  were  one  while  we  did  sympathize, 
So  could  we  not  the  simplest  bargain  drive ; 

And  what  avails  it  now  that  we  are  wise, 
If  absence  doth  this  doubleness  contrive? 

Eternity  may  not  the  chance  repeat, 

But  I  must  tread  my  single  way  alone, 
In  sad  remembrance  that  we  once  did  meet, 

And  know  that  bliss  irrevocably  gone. 

The  spheres  henceforth  my  elegy  shall  sing, 

For  elegy  has  other  subject  none ; 
Each  strain  of  music  in  my  ears  shall  ring 

Knell  of  departure  from  that  other  one. 

Make  haste  and  celebrate  my  tragedy ; 

With  fitting  strain  resound  ye  woods  and  fields ; 
Sorrow  is  dearer  in  such  case  to  me 

Than  all  the  joys  other  occasion  yields. 


Is't  then  too  late  the  damage  to  repair  ? 

Distance,  forsooth,  from  my  weak  grasp  hath  reft 
The  empty  husk,  and  clutched  the  useless  tare, 

But  in  my  hands  the  wheat  and  kernel  left. 

If  I  but  love  that  virtue  which  he  is, 

Though  it  be  scented  in  the  morning  air, 

Still  shall  we  be  truest  acquaintances, 

Nor  mortals  know  a  sympathy  more  rare. 

Friendship  is  evanescent  in  every  man's  experience,  and 
remembered  like  heat  lightning  in  past  summers.  Fair 
and  flitting  like  a  summer  cloud ;  —  there  is  always  some 
vapor  in  the  air,  no  matter  how  long  the  drought;  there 
are  even  April  showers.  Surely  from  time  to  time,  for  its 
vestiges  never  depart,  it  floats  through  our  atmosphere. 
It  takes  place,  like  vegetation  in  so  many  materials,  because 
there  is  such  a  law,  but  always  without  permanent  form, 
though  ancient  and  familiar  as  the  sun  and  moon,  and  as 
sure  to  come  again.  The  heart  is  forever  inexperienced. 
They  silently  gather  as  by  magic,  these  never  failing,  never 
quite  deceiving  visions,  lie  the  bright  and  fleecy  clouds  in 
the  calmest  and  clearest  days.  The  Friend  is  some  fair 
floating  isle  of  palms  eluding  the  mariner  in  Pacific  seas. 
Many  are  the  dangers  to  be  encountered,  equinoctial  gales 


194  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

and  coral  reefs,  ere  he  may  sail  before  the  constant  trades. 
But  who  would  not  sail  through  mutiny  and  storm  even 
over  Atlantic  waves,  to  reach  the  fabulous  retreating  shores 
of  some  continent  man?  The  imagination  still  clings  to 
the  faintest  tradition  of 

THE  ATLANTIDES 

The  smothered  streams  of  love,  which  flow 

More  bright  than  Phlegethon,  more  low, 

Island  us  ever,  like  the  sea, 

In  an  Atlantic  mystery. 

Our  fabled  shores  none  ever  reach, 

No  mariner  has  found  our  beach, 

Only  our  mirage  now  is  seen, 

And  neighboring  waves  with  floating  green, 

Yet  still  the  oldest  charts  contain 

Some  dotted  outline  of  our  main ; 

In  ancient  times  midsummer  days 

Unto  the  western  islands'  gaze, 

To  Teneriffe  and  the  Azores, 

Have  shown  our  faint  and  cloud-like  shores. 

But  sink  not  yet,  ye  desolate  isles, 
Anon  your  coast  with  commerce  smiles, 
And  richer  freights  ye'll  furnish  far 
Than  Africa  or  Malabar. 
Be  fair,  be  fertile  evermore, 
Ye  rumored  but  untrodden  shore, 
Princes  and  monarchs  will  contend 
Who  first  unto  your  land  shall  send, 
And  pawn  the  jewels  of  the  crown 
To  call  your  distant  soil  their  own. 

Columbus  has  sailed  westward  of  these  isles  by  the  mariner's 
compass,  but  neither  he  nor  his  successors  have  found  them. 
We  are  no  nearer  than  Plato  was.  The  earnest  seeker  and 
hopeful  discoverer  of  this  New  World  always  haunts  the 
outskirts  of  his  time,  and  walks  through  the  densest  crowd 
uninterrupted,  and  as  it  were  in  a  straight  line.  — 

Sea  and  land  are  but  his  neighbors, 

And  companions  in  his  labors, 

Who  on  the  ocean's  verge  and  firm  land's  end 

Doth  long  and  truly  seek  his  Friend. 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  195 

Many  men  dwell  far  inland, 
But  he  alone  sits  on  the  strand. 
Whether  he  ponders  men  or  books, 
Always  still  he  seaward  looks, 
Marine  news  he  ever  reads, 
And  the  slightest  glances  heeds, 
Feels  the  sea  breeze  on  his  cheek 
At  each  word  the  landsmen  speak, 
In  every  companion's  eye 
A  sailing  vessel  doth  descry ; 
In  the  ocean's  sullen  roar 
From  some  distant  port  he  hears, 
Of  wrecks  upon  a  distant  shore, 
And  the  ventures  of  past  years. 

Who  does  not  walk  on  the  plain  as  amid  the  columns  of 
Tadmore  of  the  desert?  There  is  on  the  earth  no  institu- 
tion which  Friendship  has  established;  it  is  not  taught  by 
any  religion;  no  scripture  contains  its  maxims.  It  has  no 
temple,  nor  even  a  solitary  column.  There  goes  a  rumor  that 
the  earth  is  inhabited,  but  the  shipwrecked  mariner  has  not 
seen  a  footprint  on  the  shore.  The  hunter  has  found  only 
fragments  of  pottery  and  the  monuments  of  inhabitants. 

However,  our  fates  at  least  are  social.  Our  courses  do  not 
diverge ;  but  as  the  web  of  destiny  is  woven  it  is  fulled,  and 
we  are  cast  more  and  more  into  the  centre.  Men  naturally, 
though  feebly,  seek  this  alliance,  and  their  actions  faintly 
foretell  it.  We  are  inclined  to  lay  the  chief  stress  on  likeness 
and  not  on  difference,  and  in  foreign  bodies  we  admit  that 
there  are  many  degrees  of  warmth  below  blood  heat,  but 
none  of  cold  above  it. 

One  or  two  persons  come  to  my  house  from  time  to  time, 
there  being  proposed  to  them  the  faint  possibility  of  inter- 
course. They  are  as  full  as  they  are  silent,  and  wait  for  my 
plectrum  to  stir  the  strings  of  their  lyre.  If  they  could  ever 
come  to  the  length  of  a  sentence,  or  hear  one,  on  that  ground 
they  are  dreaming  of!  They  speak  faintly,  and  do  not  ob- 
trude themselves.  They  have  heard  some  news,  which  none, 
not  even  they  themselves,  can  impart.  It  is  a  wealth  they 
bear  about  them  which  can  be  expended  in  various  ways. 
What  came  they  out  to  seek? 

No  word  is  oftener  on  the  lips  of  men  than  Friendship, 


196  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

and  indeed  no  thought  is  more  familiar  to  their  aspirations. 
All  men  are  dreaming  of  it,  and  its  drama,  which  is  always  a 
tragedy,  is  enacted  daily.  It  is  the  secret  of  the  universe. 
You  may  tread  the  town,  you  may  wander  the  country,  ,and 
none  shall  ever  speak  of  it,  yet  thought  is  everywhere  busy 
about  it,  and  the  idea  of  what  is  possible  in  this  respect  affects 
our  behavior  toward  all  new  men  and  women,  and  a  great 
many  old  ones.  Nevertheless,  I  can  remember  only  two  or 
three  essays  on  this  subject  in  all  literature.  No  wonder 
that  the  Mythology,  and  Arabian  Nights,  and  Shakespeare, 
and  Scott's  novels  entertain  us,  —  we  are  poets  and  fablers 
and  dramatists  and  novelists  ourselves.  We  are  continually 
acting  a  part  in  a  more  interesting  drama  than  any  written. 
We  are  dreaming  that  our  Friends  are  our  Friends,  and  that 
we  are  our  Friends'  Friends.  Our  actual  Friends  are  but 
distant  relations  of  those  to  whom  we  are  pledged.  We  never 
exchange  more  than  three  words  with  a  Friend  in  our  lives 
on  that  level  to  which  our  thoughts  and  feelings  almost 
habitually  rise.  One  goes  forth  prepared  to  say  "Sweet 
Friends!"  and  the  salutation  is  "Damn  your  eyes!"  But 
never  mind;  faint  heart  never  won  true  Friend.  0  my 
Friend,  may  it  come  to  pass,  once,  that  when  you  are  my 
Friend  I  may  be  yours. 

Of  what  use  the  friendliest  disposition  even,  if  there  are 
no  hours  given  to  Friendship,  if  it  is  forever  postponed  to 
unimportant  duties  and  relations?  Friendship  is  first, 
Friendship  last.  But  it  is  equally  impossible  to  forget  our 
Friends,  and  to  make  them  answer  to  our  ideal.  When 
they  say  farewell,  then  indeed  we  begin  to  keep  them  com- 
pany. How  often  we  find  ourselves  turning  our  backs  on 
our  actual  Friends,  that  we  may  go  and  meet  their  ideal 
cousins.    I  would  that  I  were  worthy  to  be  any  man's  Friend. 

What  is  commonly  honored  with  the  name  of  Friendship 
is  no  very  profound  or  powerful  instinct.  Men  do  not, 
after  all,  love  their  Friends  greatly.  I  do  not  often  see  the 
farmers  made  seers  and  wise  to  the  verge  of  insanity  by  their 
Friendship  for  one  another.  They  are  not  often  transfigured 
and  translated  by  love  in  each  other's  presence.  I  do  not 
observe  them  purified,  refined,  and  elevated  by  the  love  of  a 
man.  If  one  abates  a  little  the  price  of  his  wood,  or  gives  a 
neighbor  his  vote  at  town-meeting,  or  a  barrel  of  apples,  or 
lends  him  his  wagon  frequently,  it  is  esteemed  a  rare  instance 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  197 

of  Friendship.  Nor  do  the  farmers'  wives  lead  lives  conse- 
crated to  Friendship.  I  do  not  see  the  pair  of  farmer  friends 
of  either  sex  prepared  to  stand  against  the  world.  There  are 
only  two  or  three  couples  in  history.  To  say  that  a  man  is 
your  Friend,  means  commonly  no  more  than  this,  that  he 
is  not  your  enemy.  Most  contemplate  only  what  would 
be  the  accidental  and  trifling  advantages  of  Friendship,  as 
that  the  Friend  can  assist  in  time  of  need,  by  his  substance, 
or  his  influence,  or  his  counsel;  but  he  who  foresees  such 
advantages  in  this  relation  proves  himself  blind  to  its  real 
advantage,  or  indeed  wholly  inexperienced  in  the  relation 
itself.  Such  services  are  particular  and  menial,  compared 
with  the  perpetual  and  all-embracing  service  which  it  is. 
Even  the  utmost  good-will  and  harmony  and  practical  kind- 
ness are  not  sufficient  for  Friendship,  for  Friends  do  not  live 
in  harmony  merely,  as  some  say,  but  in  melody.  We  do 
not  wish  for  Friends  to  feed  and  clothe  our  bodies,  —  neigh- 
bors are  kind  enough  for  that,  —  but  to  do  the  like  office  to 
our  spirits.  For  this  few  are  rich  enough,  however  well 
disposed  they  may  be. 

Think  of  the  importance  of  Friendship  in  the  education  of 
men.  It  will  make  a  man  honest ;  it  will  make  him  a  hero ; 
it  will  make  him  a  saint.  It  is  the  state  of  the  just  dealing 
with  the  just,  the  magnanimous  with  the  magnanimous,  the 
sincere  with  the  sincere,  man  with  man.  — 

"Why  love  among  the  virtues  is  not  known, 
Is  tnat  love  is  them  all  contract  in  one." 

All  the  abuses  which  are  the  object  of  reform  with  the 
philanthropist,  the  statesman,  and  the  housekeeper,  are 
unconsciously  amended  in  the  intercourse  of  Friends.  A 
Friend  is  one  who  incessantly  pays  us  the  compliment  of 
expecting  from  us  all  the  virtues,  and  who  can  appreciate 
them  in  us.  It  takes  two  to  speak  the  truth,  —  one  to 
speak,  and  another  to  hear.  How  can  one  treat  with  mag- 
nanimity mere  wood  and  stone?  If  we  dealt  only  with  the 
false  and  dishonest,  we  should  at  last  forget  how  to  speak 
truth.  In  our  daily  intercourse  with  men,  our  nobler  facul- 
ties are  dormant  and  suffered  to  rust.  None  will  pay  us  the 
compliment  to  expect  nobleness  from  us.  We  ask  our 
neighbor  to  suffer  himself  to  be  dealt  with  truly,  sincerely, 
nobly;    but  he  answers  no  by  his  deafness.     He  does  not 


198  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

even  hear  this  prayer.  He  says  practically,  —  I  will  be 
content  if  you  treat  me  as  no  better  than  I  should  be,  as  de- 
ceitful, mean,  dishonest,  and  selfish.  For  the  most  part,  we 
are  contented  so  to  deal  and  to  be  dealt  with,  and  we  do  not 
think  that  for  the  mass  of  men  there  is  any  truer  and  nobler 
relation  possible.  A  man  may  have  good  neighbors,  so 
called,  and  acquaintances,  and  even  companions,  wife,  par- 
ents, brothers,  sisters,  children,  who  meet  himself  and  one 
another  on  this  ground  only.  ^  The  State  does  not  demand 
justice  of  its  members,  but  thinks  that  it  succeeds  very  well 
with  the  least  degree  of  it,  hardly  more  than  rogues  practice ; 
and  so  do  the  family  and  the  neighborhood.  What  is  com- 
monly called  Friendship  even  is  only  a  little  more  honor 
among  rogues. 

But  sometimes  we  are  said  to  love  another,  that  is  to  stand 
in  a  true  relation  to  him,  so  that  we  give  the  best  to,  and 
receive  the  best  from,  him.  Between  whom  there  is  hearty 
truth  there  is  love;  and  in  proportion  to  our  truthfulness 
and  confidence  in  one  another,  our  lives  are  divine  and  miracu- 
lous, and  answer  to  our  ideal.  There  are  passages  of  affec- 
tion in  our  intercourse  with  mortal  men  and  women,  such  as 
no  prophecy  had  taught  us  to  expect,  which  transcend  our 
earthly  life,  and  anticipate  heaven  for  us.  What  is  this 
Love  that  may  come  right  into  the  middle  of  a  prosaic  Goffs- 
town  day,  equal  to  any  of  the  gods?  that  discovers  a  new 
world,  fair  and  fresh  and  eternal,  occupying  the  place  of  this 
old  one,  when  to  the  common  eye  a  dust  has  settled  on  the 
universe?  which  world  cannot  else  be  reached,  and  does  not 
exist.  What  other  words,  we  may  almost  ask,  are  memorable 
and  worthy  to  be  repeated  than  those  which  love  has  in- 
spired? It  is  wonderful  that  they  were  ever  uttered.  They 
are  few  and  rare,  indeed,  but,  like  a  strain  of  music,  they  are 
incessantly  repeated  and  modulated  by  the  memory.  All 
other  words  crumble  off  with  the  stucco  which  overlies  the 
heart.  We  should  not  dare  to  repeat  them  now  aloud.  We 
are  not  competent  to  hear  them  at  all  times. 

The  books  for  young  people  say  a  great  deal  about  the 
selection  of  Friends ;  it  is  because  they  really  have  nothing 
to  say  about  Friends.  They  mean  associates  and  confidants 
merely.  "Know  that  the  contrariety  of  foe  and  Friend  pro- 
ceeds from  God."  Friendship  takes  place  between  those 
who  have  an  affinity  for  one  another,  and  is  a  perfectly  natu- 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  199 

ral  and  inevitable  result.  No  professions  nor  advances  will 
avail.  Even  speech,  at  first,  necessarily  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it ;  but  it  follows  after  silence,  as  the  buds  in  the  graft 
do  not  put  forth  into  leaves  till  long  after  the  graft  has  taken. 
It  is  a  drama  in  which  the  parties  have  no  part  to  act.  We 
are  all  Mussulmans  and  fatalists  in  this  respect.  Impatient 
and  uncertain  lovers  think  that  they  must  say  or  do  some-' 
thing  kind  whenever  they  meet;  they  must  never  be  cold. 
But  they  who  are  Friends  do  not  do  what  they  think  they 
must,  but  what  they  must.  Even  their  Friendship  is  in  one 
sense  but  a  sublime  phenomenon  to  them. 

The  true  and  not  despairing  Friend  will  address  his  Friend 
in  some  such  terms  as  these. 

"I  never  asked  thy  leave  to  let  me  love  thee,  —  I  have  a 
right.  I  love  thee  not  as  something  private  and  personal, 
which  is  your  own,  but  as  something  universal  and  worthy 
of  love,  which  I  have  found.  0  how  I  think  of  you !  You 
are  purely  good,  —  you  are  infinitely  good.  I  can  trust  you 
forever.  I  did  not  think  that  humanity  was  so  rich.  Give 
me  an  opportunity  to  live." 

"You  are  the  fact  in  a  fiction,  —  you  are  the  truth  more 
strange  and  admirable  than  fiction.  Consent  only  to  be 
what  you  are.    I  alone  will  never  stand  in  your  way." 

"This  is  what  I  would  like,  — to  be  as  intimate  with  you 
as  our  spirits  are  intimate,  —  respecting  you  as  I  respect  my 
ideal.  Never  to  profane  one  another  by  word  or  action, 
even  by  a  thought.  Between  us,  if  necessary,  let  there  be  no 
acquaintance." 

"I  have  discovered  you:  how  can  you  be  concealed  from 
me?" 

The  Friend  asks  no  return  but  that  his  Friend  will  re- 
ligiously accept  and  wear  and  not  disgrace  his  apotheosis  of 
him.  They  cherish  each  other's  hopes.  They  are  kind  to 
each  other's  dreams. 

Though  the  poet  says,  "'T  is  the  preeminence  of  Friend- 
ship to  impute  excellence,"  yet  we  can  never  praise  our 
Friend,  nor  esteem  him  praiseworthy,  nor  let  him  think  that 
he  can  please  us  by  any  behavior,  or  ever  treat  us  well  enough. 
That  kindness  which  has  so  good  a  reputation  elsewhere  can 
least  of  all  consist  with  this  relation,  and  no  such  affront 


200  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

can  be  offered  to  a  Friend,  as  a  conscious  good-will,  a  friend- 
liness which  is  not  a  necessity  of  the  Friend's  nature. 

The  sexes  are  naturally  most  strongly  attracted  to  one 
another,  by  constant  constitutional  differences,  and  are  most 
commonly  and  surely  the  complements  of  one  another.  How 
natural  and  easy  it  is  for  man  to  secure  the  attention  of 
woman  to  what  interests  himself.  Men  and  women  of  equal 
culture,  thrown  together,  are  sure  to  be  of  a  certain  value 
to  one  another,  more  than  men  to  men.  There  exists  al- 
ready a  natural  disinterestedness  and  liberality  in  such 
society,  and  I  think  that  any  man  will  more  confidently  carry 
his  favorite  books  to  read  to  some  circle  of  intelligent  women, 
than  to  one  of  his  own  sex.  The  visit  of  man  to  man  is  wont 
to  be  an  interruption,  but  the  sexes  naturally  expect  one 
another.  Yet  Friendship  is  no  respecter  of  sex;  and  per- 
haps it  is  more  rare  between  the  sexes,  than  between  two  of 
the  same  sex. 

Friendship  is,  at  any  rate,  a  relation  of  perfect  equality. 
It  cannot  well  spare  any  outward  sign  of  equal  obligation 
and  advantage.  The  nobleman  can  never  have  a  Friend 
among  his  retainers,  nor  the  king  among  his  subjects.  Not 
that  the  parties  to  it  are  in  all  respects  equal,  but  they  are 
equal  in  all  that  respects  or  affects  their  Friendship.  The 
one's  love  is  exactly  balanced  and  represented  by  the  other's. 
Persons  are  only  the  vessels  which  contain  the  nectar,  and 
the  hydrostatic  paradox  is  the  symbol  of  love's  law.  It 
finds  its  level  and  rises  to  its  fountain-head  in  all  breasts,  and 
its  slenderest  column  balances  the  ocean.  — 

Love  equals  swift  and  slow, 

And  high  and  low, 
Racer  and  lame, 

The  hunter  and  his  game. 

The  one  sex  is  not,  in  this  respect,  more  tender  than  the 
other.    A  hero's  love  is  as  delicate  as  a  maiden's. 

Confucius  said,  "Never  contract  Friendship  with  a  man 
that  is  not  better  than  thyself."  It  is  the  merit  and  preser- 
vation of  Friendship,  that  it  takes  place  on  a  level  higher  than 
the  actual  characters  of  the  parties  would  seem  to  warrant. 
The  rays  of  light  come  to  us  in  such  a  curve  that  every  man 
whom  we  meet  appears  to  be  taller  than  he  actually  is.  Such 
foundation  has  civility.     My  Friend  is  that  one  whom  I  can 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  201 

associate  with  my  choicest  thought.  I  always  assign  to 
him  a  nobler  employment  in  my  absence  than  I  ever  find 
him  engaged  in;  and  I  imagine  that  the  hours  which  he 
devotes  to  me  were  snatched  from  a  higher  society.  The 
sorest  insult  which  I  ever  received  from  a  Friend  was,  when 
he  behaved  with  the  license  which  only  long  and  cheap  ac- 
quaintance allows  to  one's  faults,  in  my  presence,  without 
shame,  and  still  addressed  me  in  friendly  accents.  Be- 
ware, lest  thy  Friend  learn  at  last  to  tolerate  one  frailty  of 
thine,  and  so  an  obstacle  be  raised  to  the  progress  of  thy  love. 
Friendship  is  never  established  as  an  understood  relation. 
Do  you  demand  that  I  be  less  your  Friend  that  you  may  know 
it?  Yet  what  right  have  I  to  think  that  another  cherishes 
so  rare  a  sentiment  for  me?  It  is  a  miracle  which  requires 
constant  proofs.  It  is  an  exercise  of  the  purest  imagina- 
tion and  the  rarest  faith.  It  says  by  a  silent  but  eloquent 
behavior,  —  "I  will  be  so  related  to  thee  as  thou  canst 
imagine ;  even  so  thou  mayest  believe.  I  will  spend  truth, 
—  all  my  wealth  on  thee,"  —  and  the  Friend  responds 
silently  through  his  nature  and  life,  and  treats  his  Friend 
with  the  same  divine  courtesy.  He  knows  us  literally  through 
thick  and  thin.  He  never  asks  for  a  sign  of  love,  but  can 
distinguish  it  by  the  features  which  it  naturally  wears.  We 
never  need  to  stand  upon  ceremony  with  him  with  regard 
to  his  visits.  Wait  not  till  I  invite  thee,  but  observe  that  I 
am  glad  to  see  thee  when  thou  comest.  It  would  be  paying 
too  dear  for  thy  visit  to  ask  for  it.  Where  my  Friend  lives 
there  are  all  riches  and  every  attraction,  and  no  slight  obstacle 
can  keep  me  from  him.  Let  me  never  have  to  tell  thee  what 
I  have  not  to  tell.  Let  our  intercourse  be  wholly  above  our- 
selves, and  draw  us  up  to  it.  The  language  of  Friendship 
is  not  words  but  meanings.  It  is  an  intelligence  above 
language.  One  imagines  endless  conversations  with  his 
Friend,  in  which  the  tongue  shall  be  loosed,  and  thoughts 
be  spoken  without  hesitancy,  or  end;  but  the  experience  is 
commonly  far  otherwise.  Acquaintances  may  come  and  go, 
and  have  a  word  ready  for  every  occasion ;  but  what  puny 
word  shall  he  utter  whose  very  breath  is  thought  and  mean- 
ing? Suppose  you  go  to  bid  farewell  to  your  Friend  who  is 
setting  out  on  a  journey ;  what  other  outward  sign  do  you 
know  of  than  to  shake  his  hand?  Have  you  any  palaver 
ready  for  him  then?     any  box  of  salve  to  commit  to  his 


202  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

pocket?  any  particular  message  to  send  by  him ?  any  state- 
ment which  you  had  forgotten  to  make  ?  —  as  if  you  could 
forget  anything.  —  No,  it  is  much  that  you  take  his  hand 
and  say  Farewell ;  that  you  could  easily  omit ;  so  far  custom 
has  prevailed.  It  is  even  painful,  if  he  is  to  go,  that  he  should 
linger  so  long.  If  he  must  go,  let  him  go  quickly.  Have 
you  any  last  words?  Alas,  it  is  only  the  word  of  words, 
which  you  have  so  long  sought  and  found  not;  you  have 
not  a  first  word  yet.  There  are  few  even  whom  I  should 
venture  to  call  earnestly  by  their  most  proper  names.  A 
name  pronounced  is  the  recognition  of  the  individual  to 
whom  it  belongs.  He  who  can  pronounce  my  name  aright, 
he  can  call  me,  and  is  entitled  to  my  love  and  service. 

The  violence  of  love  is  as  much  to  be  dreaded  as  that  of 
hate.  When  it  is  durable  it  is  serene  and  equable.  Even 
its  famous  pains  begin  only  with  the  ebb  of  love,  for  few 
are  indeed  lovers,  though  all  would  fain  be.  It  is  one  proof 
of  a  man's  fitness  for  Friendship  that  he  is  able  to  do  without 
that  which  is  cheap  and  passionate.  A  true  Friendship  is 
as  wise  as  it  is  tender.  The  parties  to  it  yield  implicitly  to 
the  guidance  of  their  love,  and  know  no  other  law  nor  kind- 
ness. It  is  not  extravagant  and  insane,  but  what  it  says  is 
something  established  henceforth,  and  will  bear  to  be  stereo- 
typed. It  is  a  truer  truth,  it  is  better  and  fairer  news,  and 
no  time  will  ever  shame  it,  or  prove  it  false.  This  is  a  plant 
which  thrives  best  in  a  temperate  zone,  where  summer  and 
winter  alternate  with  one  another.  The  Friend  is  a  neces- 
sarius,  and  meets  his  Friend  on  homely  ground;  not  on 
carpets  and  cushions,  but  on  the  ground  and  on  rocks  they 
will  sit,  obeying  the  natural  and  primitive  laws.  They  will 
meet  without  any  outcry,  and  part  without  loud  sorrow. 
Their  relation  implies  such  qualities  as  the  warrior  prizes; 
for  it  takes  a  valor  to  open  the  hearts  of  men  as  well  as  the 
gates  of  cities. 

The  Friendship  which  Wawatam  testified  for  Henry  the 
fur-trader,  as  described  in  the  latter's  "Adventures,"  so 
almost  bare  and  leafless,  yet  not  blossomless  nor  fruitless, 
is  remembered  with  satisfaction  and  security.  The  stern 
imperturbable  warrior,  after  fasting,  solitude,  and  morti- 
fication of  body,  comes  to  the  white  man's  lodge,  and  affirms 
that  he  is  the  white  brother  whom  he  saw  in  his  dream,  and 
adopts  him  henceforth.    He  buries  the  hatchet  as  it  regards 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  203 

his  friend,  and  they  hunt  and  feast  and  make  maple-sugar 
together.  "  Metals  unite  from  fluxility;  birds  and  beasts 
from  motives  of  convenience ;  fools  from  fear  and  stupidity ; 
and  just  men  at  sight."  If  Wawatam  would  taste  the  "white 
man's  milk"  with  his  tribe,  or  take  his  bowl  of  human  broth 
made  of  the  trader's  fellow-countrymen,  he  first  finds  a  place 
of  safety  for  his  Friend,  whom  he  has  rescued  from  a  similar 
fate.  At  length,  after  a  long  winter  of  undisturbed  and 
happy  intercourse  in  the  family  of  the  chieftain  in  the  wilder- 
ness, hunting  and  fishing,  they  return  in  the  spring  to  Michili- 
mackinac  to  dispose  of  their  furs ;  and  it  becomes  necessary 
for  Wawatam  to  take  leave  of  his  Friend  at  the  Isle  aux 
Outardes,  when  the  latter,  to  avoid  his  enemies,  proceeded 
to  the  Sault  de  Sainte  Marie,  supposing  that  they  were  to 
be  separated  for  a  short  time  only.  "We  now  exchanged 
farewells,"  says  Henry,  "with  an  emotion  entirely  reciprocal. 
I  did  not  quit  the  lodge  without  the  most  grateful  sense  of 
the  many  acts  of  goodness  which  I  had  experienced  in  it, 
nor  without  the  sincerest  respect  for  the  virtues  which  I 
had  witnessed  among  its  members.  All  the  family  ac- 
companied me  to  the  beach;  and  the  canoe  had  no  sooner 
put  off  than  Wawatam  commenced  an  address  to  the  Kichi 
Manito,  beseeching  him  to  take  care  of  me,  his  brother,  till 
we  should  next  meet.  —  We  had  proceeded  to  too  great  a 
distance  to  allow  of  our  hearing  his  voice,  before  Wawatam  had 
ceased  to  offer  up  his  prayers."     We  never  hear  of  him  again. 

Friendship  is  not  so  kind  as  is  imagined ;  it  has  not  much 
human  blood  in  it,  but  consists  with  a  certain  disregard  for 
men  and  their  erections,  the  Christian  duties  and  humanities, 
while  it  purifies  the  air  like  electricity.  There  may  be  the 
sternest  tragedy  in  the  relation  of  two  more  than  usually 
innocent  and  true  to  their  highest  instincts.  We  may  call 
it  an  essentially  heathenish  intercourse,  free  and  irresponsible 
in  its  nature,  and  practising  all  the  virtues  gratuitously.  It 
is  not  the  highest  sympathy  merely,  but  a  pure  and  lofty 
society,  a  fragmentary  and  godlike  intercourse  of  ancient 
date,  still  kept  up  at  intervals,  which,  remembering  itself, 
does  not  hesitate  to  disregard  the  humbler  rights  and  duties 
of  humanity.  It  requires  immaculate  and  godlike  qualities 
full-grown,  and  exists  at  all  only  by  condescension  and  an- 
ticipation of  the  remotest  future.  We  love  nothing  which  is 
merely  good  and  not  fair,  if  such  a  thing  is  possible.    Nature 


204  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

puts  some  kind  of  blossom  before  every  fruit,  not  simply  a 
calyx  behind  it.  When  the  Friend  comes  out  of  his  heathen- 
ism and  superstition,  and  breaks  his  idols,  being  converted 
by  the  precepts  of  a  newer  testament ;  when  he  forgets  his 
mythology,  and  treats  his  Friend  like  a  Christian,  or  as  he 
can  afford,  — then  Friendship  ceases  to  be  Friendship,  and 
becomes  charity ;  that  principle  which  established  the  alms- 
house is  now  beginning  with  its  charity  at  home,  and  estab- 
lishing an  almshouse  and  pauper  relations  there. 

As  for  the  number  which  this  society  admits,  it  is  at  any 
rate  to  be  begun  with  one,  the  noblest  and  greatest  that  we 
know,  and  whether  the  world  will  ever  carry  it  further, 
whether,  as  Chaucer  affirms, 

"There  be  mo  sterres  in  the  skie  than  a  pair," 

remains  to  be  proved ;  — 

"And  certaine  he  is  well  begone 
Among  a  thousand  that  findeth  one." 

We  shall  not  surrender  ourselves  heartily  to  any  while  we 
are  conscious  that  another  is  more  deserving  of  our  love. 
Yet  Friendship  does  not  stand  for  numbers;  the  Friend  does 
not  count  his  Friends  on  his  fingers ;  they  are  not  numerable. 
The  more  there  are  included  by  this  bond,  if  they  are  indeed 
included,  the  rarer  and  diviner  the  quality  of  the  love  that 
binds  them.  I  am  ready  to  believe  that  as  private  and  inti- 
mate a  relation  may  exist  by  which  three  are  embraced,  as 
between  two.  Indeed  we  cannot  have  too  many  friends; 
the  virtue  which  we  appreciate  we  to  some  extent  appro- 
priate, so  that  thus  we  are  made  at  last  more  fit  for  every 
relation  of  life.  A  base  Friendship  is  of  a  narrowing  and 
exclusive  tendency,  but  a  noble  one  is  not  exclusive ;  its  very 
superfluity  and  dispersed  love  is  the  humanity  which  sweetens 
society,  and  sympathizes  with  foreign  nations ;  for  though 
its  foundations  are  private,  it  is  in  effect,  a  public  affair  and 
a  public  advantage,  and  the  Friend,  more  than  the  father  of  a 
family,  deserves  well  of  the  state. 

The  only  danger  in  Friendship  is  that  it  will  end.  It  is  a 
delicate  plant  though  a  native.  The  least  unworthiness, 
even  if  it  be  unknown  to  one's  self,  vitiates  it.    Let  the 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  205 

Friend  know  that  those  faults  which  he  observes  in  his 
Friend  his  own  faults  attract.  There  is  no  rule  more  in- 
variable than  that  we  are  paid  for  our  suspicions  by  finding 
what  we  suspected.  By  our  narrowness  and  prejudices  we 
say,  I  will  have  so  much  and  such  of  you,  my  Friend,  no 
more.  Perhaps  there  are  none  charitable,  none  disinterested, 
none  wise,  noble,  and  heroic  enough,  for  a  true  and  lasting 
Friendship. 

I  sometimes  hear  my  Friends  complain  finely  that  I  do 
not  appreciate  their  fineness.  I  shall  not  tell  them  whether 
I  do  or  not.  As  if  they  expected  a  vote  of  thanks  for  every 
fine  thing  which  they  uttered  or  did.  Who  knows  but  it 
was  finely  appreciated.  It  may  be  that  your  silence  was  the 
finest  thing  of  the  two.  There  are  some  things  which  a  man 
never  speaks  of,  which  are  much  finer  kept  silent  about.  To 
the  highest  communications  we  only  lend  a  silent  ear.  Our 
finest  relations  are  not  simply  kept  silent  about,  but  buried 
under  a  positive  depth  of  silence,  never  to  be  revealed.  It 
may  be  that  we  are  not  even  yet  acquainted.  In  human 
intercourse  the  tragedy  begins,  not  when  there  is  misunder- 
standing about  words,  but  when  silence  is  not  understood. 
Then  there  can  never  be  an  explanation.  What  avails  it 
that  another  loves  you,  if  he  does  not  understand  you? 
Such  love  is  a  curse.  What  sort  of  companions  are  they  who 
are  presuming  always  that  their  silence  is  more  expressive 
than  yours?  How  foolish,  and  inconsiderate,  and  unjust, 
to  conduct  as  if  you  were  the  only  party  aggrieved!  Has 
not  your  Friend  always  equal  ground  of  complaint?  No 
doubt  my  Friends  sometimes  speak  to  me  in  vain,  but  they 
do  not  know  what  things  I  hear  which  they  are  not  aware 
that  they  have  spoken.  I  know  that  I  have  frequently 
disappointed  them  by  not  giving  them  words  when  they 
expected  them,  or  such  as  they  expected.  Whenever  I  see 
my  Friend  I  speak  to  him,  but  the  expector,  the  man  with 
the  ears,  is  not  he.  They  will  complain  too  that  you  are 
hard.  O  ye  that  would  have  the  cocoanut  wrong  side  out- 
wards, when  next  I  weep  I  will  let  you  know.  They  ask  for 
words  and  deeds,  when  a  true  relation  is  word  and  deed. 
If  they  know  not  of  these  things,  how  can  they  be  informed  ? 
We  often  forbear  to  confess  our  feelings,  not  from  pride,  but 
for  fear  that  we  could  not  continue  to  love  the  one  who  re- 
quired us  to  give  such  proof  of  our  affection. 


206  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

I  know  a  woman  who  possesses  a  restless  and  intelligent 
mind,  interested  in  her  own  culture,  and  earnest  to  enjoy  the 
highest  possible  advantages,  and  I  meet  her  with  pleasure 
as  a  natural  person  who  not  a  little  provokes  me,  and  I  sup- 
pose is  stimulated  in  turn  by  myself.  Yet  our  acquaintance 
plainly  does  not  attain  to  that  degree  of  confidence  and  senti- 
ment which  women,  which  all,  in  fact,  covet.  I  am  glad  to 
help  her,  as  I  am  helped  by  her ;  I  like  very  well  to  know  her 
with  a  sort  of  stranger's  privilege,  and  hesitate  to  visit  her 
often,  like  her  other  Friends.  My  nature  pauses  here,  I  do 
not  well  know  why.  Perhaps  she  does  not  make  the  highest 
demand  on  me,  a  religious  demand.  Some,  with  whose 
prejudices  or  peculiar  bias  I  have  no  sympathy,  yet  inspire 
me  with  confidence,  and  I  trust  that  they  confide  in  me  also 
as  a  religious  heathen  at  least,  —  a  good  Greek.  I  too  have 
principles  as  well  founded  as  their  own.  If  this  person  could 
conceive  that,  without  wilfulness,  I  associate  with  her  as 
far  as  our  destinies  are  coincident,  as  far  as  our  Good  Geniuses 
permit,  and  still  value  such  intercourse,  it  would  be  a  grate- 
ful assurance  to  me.  I  feel  as  if  I  appeared  careless,  indiffer- 
ent, and  without  principle  to  her,  not  expecting  more,  and 
yet  not  content  with  less.  If  she  could  know  that  I  make  an 
infinite  demand  on  myself,  as  well  as  on  all  others,  she  would 
see  that  this  true  though  incomplete  intercourse,  is  infinitely 
better  than  a  more  unreserved  but  falsely  grounded  one, 
without  the  principle  of  growth  in  it.  For  a  companion,  I 
require  one  who  will  make  an  equal  demand  on  me  with  my 
own  genius.  Such  a  one  will  always  be  rightly  tolerant.  It 
is  suicide  and  corrupts  good  manners  to  welcome  any  less 
than  this.  I  value  and  trust  those  who  love  and  praise  my 
aspiration  rather  than  my  performance.  If  you  would  not 
stop  to  look  at  me,  but  look  whither  I  am  looking  and  further, 
then  my  education  could  not  dispense  with  your  company. 

My  love  must  be  as  free 

As  is  the  eagle's  wing, 
Hovering  o'er  land  and  sea 

And  everything. 

I  must  not  dim  my  eye 

In  thy  saloon, 
I  must  not  leave  my  sky 

And  nightly  moon. 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  207 

Be  not  the  fowler's  net 

Which  stays  my  flight, 
And  craftily  is  set 

T'  allure  the  sight. 


But  be  the  favoring  gale 

That  bears  me  on, 
And  still  doth  fill  my  sail 

When  thou  art  gone. 

I  cannot  leave  my  sky 

For  thy  caprice, 
True  love  would  soar  as  high 

As  heaven  is. 


The  eagle  would  not  brook 
Her  mate  thus  won, 

Who  trained  his  eye  to  look 
Beneath  the  sun. 


Nothing  is  so  difficult  as  to  help  a  Friend  in  matters  which 
do  not  require  the  aid  of  Friendship,  but  only  a  cheap  and 
trivial  service,  if  your  Friendship  wants  the  basis  of  a  thorough 
practical  acquaintance.  I  stand  in  the  friendliest  relation, 
on  social  and  spiritual  grounds,  to  one  who  does  not  per- 
ceive what  practical  skill  I  have,  but  when  he  seeks  my 
assistance  in  such  matters,  is  wholly  ignorant  of  that  one  whom 
he  deals  with ;  does  not  use  my  skill,  which  in  such  matters 
is  much  greater  than  his,  but  only  my  hands.  I  know  another 
who,  on  the  contrary,  is  remarkable  for  his  discrimination  in 
this  respect ;  who  knows  how  to  make  use  of  the  talents  of 
others  when  he  does  not  possess  the  same ;  knows  when  not 
to  look  after  or  oversee,  and  stops  short  at  his  man.  It  is  a 
rare  pleasure  to  serve  him,  which  all  laborers  know.  I  am 
not  a  little  pained  by  the  other  kind  of  treatment.  It  is  as 
if,  after  the  friendliest  and  most  ennobling  intercourse,  your 
Friend  should  use  you  as  a  hammer  and  drive  a  nail  with 
your  head,  all  in  good  faith ;  notwithstanding  that  you  are 
a  tolerable  carpenter,  as  well  as  his  good  Friend,  and  would 
use  a  hammer  cheerfully  in  his  service.  This  want  of  per- 
ception is  a  defect  which  all  the  virtues  of  the  heart  cannot 
supply.  — 


208  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

The  Good  how  can  we  trust? 

Only  the  Wise  are  just. 

The  Good  we  use, 

The  Wise  we  cannot  choose. 

These  there  are  none  above ; 

The  Good  they  know  and  love, 

But  are  not  known  again 

By  those  of  lesser  ken. 

The}'  do  not  charm  us  with  their  eyes, 

But  they  transfix  with  their  advice ; 

No  partial  sympathy  they  feel 

With  private  woe  or  private  weal, 

But  with  the  universe  joy  and  sigh, 

Whose  knowledge  is  their  sympathy. 

Confucius  said,  "To  contract  ties  of  Friendship  with  any 
one,  is  to  contract  Friendship  with  his  virtue.  There  ought 
not  to  be  any  other  motive  in  Friendship."  But  men  wish 
us  to  contract  Friendship  with  their  vice  also.  I  have  a 
Friend  who  wishes  me  to  see  that  to  be  right  which  I  know 
to  be  wrong.  But  if  Friendship  is  to  rob  me  of  my  eyes,  if 
it  is  to  darken  the  day,  I  will  have  none  of  it.  It  should  be 
expansive  and  inconceivably  liberalizing  in  its  effects.  True 
Friendship  can  afford  true  knowledge.  It  does  not  depend 
on  darkness  and  ignorance.  A  want  of  discernment  cannot 
be  an  ingredient  in  it.  If  I  can  see  my  Friend's  virtues  more 
distinctly  than  another's,  his  faults  too  are  made  more  con- 
spicuous by  contrast.  We  have  not  so  good  a  right  to  hate 
any  as  our  Friend.  Faults  are  not  the  less  faults  because 
they  are  invariably  balanced  by  corresponding  virtues,  and 
for  a  fault  there  is  no  excuse,  though  it  may  appear  greater 
than  it  is  in  many  ways.  I  have  never  known  one  who  could 
bear  criticism,  who  could  not  be  flattered,  who  would  not 
bribe  his  judge,  or  was  content  that  the  truth  should  be 
loved  always  better  than  himself. 

If  two  travellers  would  go  their  way  harmoniously  to- 
gether, the  one  must  take  as  true  and  just  a  view  of  things 
as  the  other,  else  their  path  will  not  be  strewn  with  roses. 
Yet  you  can  travel  profitably  and  pleasantly  even  with  a 
blind  man,  if  he  practises  common  courtesy,  and  when  you 
converse  about  the  scenery  will  remember  that  he  is  blind 
but  that  you  can  see ;  and  you  will  not  forget  that  his  sense 
of  hearing  is  probably  quickened  by  his  want  of  sight.  Other- 
wise you  will  not  long  keep  company.    A  blind  man,  and  a 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  209 

man  in  whose  eyes  there  was  no  defect,  were  walking  together, 
when  they  came  to  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  —  "Take  care! 
my  friend,"  said  the  latter,  "here  is  a  steep  precipice;  go 
no  further  this  way."  —  "I  know  better,"  said  the  other, 
and  stepped  off. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  all  that  we  think,  even  to  our  truest 
Friend.  We  may  bid  him  farewell  forever  sooner  than  com- 
plain, for  our  complaint  is  too  well  grounded  to  be  uttered. 
There  is  not  so  good  an  understanding  between  any  two, 
but  the  exposure  by  the  one  of  a  serious  fault  will  produce 
a  misunderstanding  in  proportion  to  its  heinousness.  The 
constitutional  differences  which  always  exist,  and  are  obstacles 
to  a  perfect  Friendship,  are  forever  a  forbidden  theme  to 
the  lips  of  Friends.  They  advise  by  their  whole  behavior. 
Nothing  can  reconcile  them  but  love.  They  are  fatally  late 
when  they  undertake  to  explain  and  treat  with  one  another 
like  foes.  Who  will  take  an  apology  for  a  Friend?  They 
must  apologize  like  dew  and  frost,  which  are  off  again  with 
the  sun,  and  which  all  men  know  in  their  hearts  to  be  be- 
neficent. The  necessity  itself  for  explanation,  —  what  ex- 
planation will  atone  for  that?  True  love  does  not  quarrel 
for  slight  reasons,  such  mistakes  as  mutual  acquaintances 
can  explain  away,  but  alas,  however  slight  the  apparent 
cause,  only  for  adequate  and  fatal  and  everlasting  reasons, 
which  can  never  be  set  aside.  Its  quarrel,  if  there  is  any, 
is  ever  recurring,  notwithstanding  the  beams  of  affection 
which  invariably  come  to  gild  its  tears;  as  the  rainbow, 
however  beautiful  and  unerring  a  sign,  does  not  promise 
fair  weather  forever,  but  only  for  a  season.  I  have  known 
two  or  three  persons  pretty  well,  and  yet  I  have  never  known 
advice  to  be  of  use  but  in  trivial  and  transient  matters.  One 
may  know  what  another  does  not,  but  the  utmost  kindness 
cannot  impart  what  is  requisite  to  make  the  advice  useful. 
We  must  accept  or  refuse  one  another  as  we  are.  I  could 
tame  a  hyena  more  easily  than  my  Friend.  He  is  a  material 
which  no  tool  of  mine  will  work.  A  naked  savage  will  fell 
an  oak  with  a  fire-brand,  and  wear  a  hatchet  out  of  the  rock 
by  friction,  but  I  cannot  hew  the  smallest  chip  out  of  the 
character  of  my  Friend,  either  to  beautify  or  deform  it. 

The  lover  learns  at  last  that  there  is  no  person  quite  trans- 
parent and  trustworthy,  but  every  one  has  a  devil  in  him 
that  is  capable  of  any  crime  in  the  long  run.     Yet,  as  an 


210  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

oriental  philosopher  has  said,  "Although  Friendship  be- 
tween good  men  is  interrupted,  their  principles  remain 
unaltered.  The  stalk  of  the  lotus  may  be  broken,  and  the 
fibres  remain  connected." 

Ignorance  and  bungling  with  love  are  better  than  wisdom 
and  skill  without.  There  may  be  courtesy,  there  may  be 
even  temper,  and  wit,  and  talent,  and  sparkling  conversation, 
there  may  be  good-will  even,  —  and  yet  the  humanest  and 
divinest  faculties  pine  for  exercise.  Our  life  without  love 
is  like  coke  and  ashes.  Men  may  be  pure  as  alabaster  and 
Parian  marble,  elegant  as  a  Tuscan  villa,  sublime  as  Niagara, 
and  yet  if  there  is  no  milk  mingled  with  the  wine  at  their 
entertainments,  better  is  the  hospitality  of  Goths  and  Vandals. 
My  Friend  is  not  of  some  other  race  or  family  of  men,  but 
flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my  bone.  He  is  my  real  brother. 
I  see  his  nature  groping  yonder  so  like  mine.  We  do  not 
five  far  apart.  Have  not  the  fates  associated  us  in  many 
ways  ?  Is  it  of  no  significance  that  we  have  so  long  partaken 
of  the  same  loaf,  drank  at  the  same  fountain,  breathed  the 
same  air,  summer  and  winter,  felt  the  same  heat  and  cold; 
that  the  same  fruits  have  been  pleased  to  refresh  us  both, 
and  we  have  never  had  a  thought  of  different  fibre  the  one 
from  the  other  ? 

Nature  doth  have  her  dawn  each  day, 

But  mine  are  far  between ; 
Content,  I  cry,  for  sooth  to  say, 

Mine  brightest  are  I  ween. 

For  when  my  sun  doth  deign  to  rise, 

Though  it  be  her  noontide, 
Her  fairest  field  in  shadow  lies, 

Nor  can  my  light  abide. 

Sometimes  I  bask  me  in  her  day, 

Conversing  with  my  mate, 
But  if  we  interchange  one  ray, 

Forthwith  her  heats  abate. 

Through  his  discourse  I  climb  and  see, 

As  from  some  eastern  hill, 
A  brighter  morrow  rise  to  me 

Than  lieth  in  her  skill. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  211 

As  't  were  two  summer  days  in  one, 

Two  Sundays  come  together, 
Our  rays  united  make  one  sun, 

With  fairest  summer  weather. 

As  surely  as  the  sunset  in  my  latest  November  shall  trans- 
late me  to  the  ethereal  world,  and  remind  me  of  the  ruddy 
morning  of  youth ;  as  surely  as  the  last  strain  of  music  which 
falls  on  my  decaying  ear  shall  make  age  to  be  forgotten, 
or,  in  short,  the  manifold  influences  of  nature  survive  during 
the  term  of  our  natural  life,  so  surely  my  Friend  shall  forever 
be  my  Friend,  and  reflect  a  ray  of  God  to  me,  and  time  shall 
foster  and  adorn  and  consecrate  our  Friendship,  no  less 
than  the  ruins  of  temples.  As  I  love  nature,  as  I  love  singing 
birds,  and  gleaming  stubble,  and  flowing  rivers,  and  morning 
and  evening,  and  summer  and  winter,  I  love  thee,  my  Friend. 

But  all  that  can  be  said  of  Friendship,  is  like  botany  to 
flowers.  How  can  the  understanding  take  account  of  its 
friendliness  ? 

Even  the  death  of  Friends  will  inspire  us  as  much  as  their 
lives.  They  will  leave  consolation  to  the  mourners,  as  the 
rich  leave  money  to  defray  the  expenses  of  their  funerals, 
and  their  memories  will  be  incrusted  over  with  sublime  and 
pleasing  thoughts,  as  their  monuments  are  overgrown  with 
moss. 

This  to  our  cis-Alpine  and  cis-Atlantic  Friends. 

Also  this  other  word  of  entreaty  and  advice  to  the  large 
and  respectable  nation  of  Acquaintances,  beyond  the  moun- 
tains ;  —  Greeting. 

My  most  serene  and  irresponsible  neighbors,  let  us  see 
that  we  have  the  whole  advantage  of  each  other ;  we  will  be 
useful,  at  least,  if  not  admirable,  to  one  another.  I  know 
that  the  mountains  which  separate  us  are  high,  and  covered 
with  perpetual  snow,  but  despair  not.  Improve  the  serene 
winter  weather  to  scale  them.  If  need  be,  soften  the  rocks 
with  vinegar.  For  here  lie  the  verdant  plains  of  Italy  ready 
to  receive  you.  Nor  shall  I  be  slow  on  my  side  to  penetrate 
to  your  Provence.  Strike  then  boldly  at  head  or  heart  or 
any  vital  part.  Depend  upon  it  the  timber  is  well  seasoned 
and  tough,  and  will  bear  rough  usage ;  and  if  it  should  crack, 


212  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

there  is  plenty  more  where  it  came  from.  I  am  no  piece  of 
crockery  that  cannot  be  jostled  against  my  neighbor  without 
danger  of  being  broken  by  the  collision,  and  must  needs  ring 
false  and  jarringly  to  the  end  of  my  days,  when  once  I  am 
cracked ;  but  rather  one  of  the  old  fashioned  wooden  trenchers, 
which  one  while  stands  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  at  another 
is  a  milking-stool,  and  at  another  a  seat  for  children,  and 
finally  goes  down  to  its  grave  not  unadorned  with  honorable 
scars,  and  does  not  die  till  it  is  worn  out.  Nothing  can  shock 
a  brave  man  but  dulness.  Think  how  many  rebuffs  every 
man  has  experienced  in  his  day;  perhaps  has  fallen  into  a 
horse-pond,  eaten  fresh-water  clams,  or  worn  one  shirt  for  a 
week  without  washing.  Indeed,  you  cannot  receive  a  shock 
unless  you  have  an  electric  affinity  for  that  which  shocks  you. 
Use  me,  then,  for  I  am  useful  in  my  way,  and  stand  as  one 
of  many  petitioners,  from  toadstool  and  henbane  up  to 
dahlia  and  violet,  supplicating  to  be  put  to  my  use,  if  by 
any  means  ye  may  find  me  serviceable ;  whether  for  a  medi- 
cated drink  or  bath,  as  balm  and  lavender ;  or  for  fragrance, 
as  verbena  and  geranium;  or  for  sight,  as  cactus;  or  for 
thoughts,  as  pansy.  —  These  humbler,  at  least,  if  not  those 
higher  uses. 

Ah  my  dear  Strangers  and  Enemies,  I  would  not  forget 
you.  I  can  well  afford  to  welcome  you.  Let  me  subscribe 
myself  Yours  ever  and  truly  —  your  much  obliged  servant. 
We  have  nothing  to  fear  from  our  foes ;  God  keeps  a  stand- 
ing army  for  that  service ;  but  we  have  no  ally  against  our 
Friends,  those  ruthless  Vandals. 

Once  more  to  one  and  all, 

"Friends,  Romans,  Countrymen,  and  Lovers." 

Let  such  pure  hate  still  underprop 
Our  love,  that  we  may  be 
Each  other's  conscience, 
And  have  our  sympathy 
Mainly  from  thence. 

We'll  one  another  treat  like  gods, 
And  all  the  faith  we  have 
In  virtue  and  in  truth,  bestow 
On  either,  and  suspicion  leave 
To  gods  below. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  213 

Two  solitary  stars  — 
Unmeasured  systems  far 
Between  us  roll, 

But  by  our  conscious  light  we  are 
Determined  to  one  pole. 

What  need  confound  the  sphere  ?  — 

Love  can  afford  to  wait, 

For  it  no  hour  's  too  late 

That  witnesseth  one  duty's  end, 

Or  to  another  doth  beginning  lend. 

It  will  subserve  no  use, 
More  than  the  tints  of  flowers, 
Only  the  independent  guest 
Frequents  its  bowers, 
Inherits  its  bequest. 

No  speech  though  kind  has  it, 
But  kinder  silence  doles 
Unto  its  mates, 
By  night  consoles, 
By  day  congratulates. 

What  saith  the  tongue  to  tongue? 
What  heareth  ear  of  ear? 
By  the  decrees  of  fate 
From  year  to  year, 
Does  it  communicate. 

Pathless  the  gulf  of  feeling  yawns  — 
No  trivial  bridge  of  words, 
Or  arch  of  boldest  span, 
Can  leap  the  moat  that  girds 
The  sincere  man. 

No  show  of  bolts  and  bars 
Can  keep  the  foeman  out, 
Or  'scape  his  secret  mine 
Who  entered  with  the  doubt 
That  drew  the  line. 

No  warder  at  the  gate 
Can  let  the  friendly  in, 
But,  like  the  sun,  o'er  all 
He  will  the  castle  win, 
And  shine  along  the  wall. 


214  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

There's  nothing  in  the  world  I  know- 
That  can  escape  from  love, 
For  every  depth  it  goes  below, 
And  every  height  above. 

It  waits  as  waits  the  sky, 
Until  the  clouds  go  by, 
Yet  shines  serenely  on 
With  an  eternal  day, 
Alike  when  they  are  gone, 
And  when  they  stay. 

Implacable  is  Love,  — 
Foes  may  be  bought  or  teazed 
From  their  hostile  intent, 
But  he  goes  unappeased 
Who  is  on  kindness  bent. 

Having  rowed  five  or  six  miles  above  Amoakeag  before  sun- 
set, and  reached  a  pleasant  part  of  the  river,  one  of  us  landed 
to  look  for  a  farmhouse,  where  we  might  replenish  our  stores, 
while  the  other  remained  cruising  about  the  stream,  and 
exploring  the  opposite  shores  to  find  a  suitable  harbor  for 
the  night.  In  the  meanwhile  the  canal  boats  began  to  come 
round  a  point  in  our  rear,  poling  their  way  along  close  to 
the  shore,  the  breeze  having  quite  died  away.  This  time 
there  was  no  offer  of  assistance,  but  one  of  the  boatmen  only 
called  out  to  say,  as  the  truest  revenge  for  having  been  the 
losers  in  the  race,  that  he  had  seen  a  wood-duck,  which 
we  had  scared  up,  sitting  on  a  tall  white-pine,  half  a  mile 
down  stream;  and  he  repeated  the  assertion  several  times, 
and  seemed  really  chagrined  at  the  apparent  suspicion  with 
which  this  information  was  received.  But  there  sat  the 
summer  duck  still  undisturbed  by  us. 

By  and  by  the  other  voyageur  returned  from  his  inland 
expedition,  bringing  one  of  the  natives  with  him,  a  little 
flaxen-headed  boy,  with  some  tradition,  or  small  edition,  of 
Robinson  Crusoe  in  his  head,  who  had  been  charmed  by  the 
account  of  our  adventures,  and  asked  his  father's  leave  to 
join  us.  He  examined,  at  first  from  the  top  of  the  bank, 
our  boat  and  furniture,  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  wished 
himself  already  his  own  man.  He  was  a  lively  and  inter- 
esting boy,  and  we  should  have  been  glad  to  ship  him; 
but  Nathan  was  still  his  father's  boy,  and  had  not  come  to 
years  of  discretion. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  215 

We  had  got  a  loaf  of  home-made  bread,  and  musk  and 
water-melons  for  dessert.  For  this  farmer,  a  clever  and 
well-disposed  man,  cultivated  a  large  patch  of  melons  for  the 
Hooksett  and  Concord  markets.  He  hospitably  enter- 
tained us  the  next  day,  exhibiting  his  hop-fields  and  kiln 
and  melon  patch,  warning  us  to  step  over  the  tight  rope 
which  surrounded  the  latter  at  a  foot  from  the  ground, 
while  he  pointed  to  a  little  bower  at  the  corner,  where  it 
connected  with  the  lock  of  a  gun  ranging  with  the  line,  and 
where,  as  he  informed  us,  he  sometimes  sat  in  pleasant 
nights  to  defend  his  premises  against  thieves.  We  stepped 
high  over  the  line,  and  sympathized  with  our  host's,  on  the 
whole  quite  human,  if  not  humane,  interest  in  the  success 
of  his  experiment.  That  night  especially  thieves  were  to 
be  expected,  from  rumors  in  the  atmosphere,  and  the  priming 
was  not  wet.  He  was  a  Methodist  man,  who  had  his  dwelling 
between  the  river  and  Uncannunuc  Mountain;  who  there 
belonged,  and  stayed  at  home  there,  and  by  the  encourage- 
ment of  distant  political  organizations,  and  by  his  own 
tenacity,  held  a  property  in  his  melons,  and  continued  to 
plant.  We  suggested  melon  seeds  of  new  varieties  and  fruit 
of  foreign  flavor  to  be  added  to  his  stock.  We  had  come 
away  up  here  among  the  hills  to  learn  the  impartial  and 
unbribable  beneficence  of  Nature.  Strawberries  and  melons 
grow  as  well  in  one  man's  garden  as  another's,  and  the  sun 
lodges  as  kindly  under  his  hill-side,  —  when  we  had  imagined 
that  she  inclined  rather  to  some  few  earnest  and  faithful  souls 
whom  we  know. 

We  found  a  convenient  harbor  for  our  boat  on  the  opposite 
or  east  shore,  still  in  Hooksett,  at  the  mouth  of  a  small  brook 
which  emptied  into  the  Merrimack,  where  it  would  be  out 
of  the  way  of  any  passing  boat  in  the  night,  —  for  they 
commonly  hug  the  shore  if  bound  up  stream,  either  to  avoid 
the  current,  or  touch  the  bottom  with  their  poles,  —  and 
where  it  would  be  accessible  without  stepping  on  the  clayey 
shore.  We  set  one  of  our  largest  melons  to  cool  in  the  still 
water  among  the  alders  at  the  mouth  of  this  creek,  but  when 
our  tent  was  pitched  and  ready,  and  we  went  to  get  it,  it  had 
floated  out  into  the  stream  and  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  So 
taking  the  boat  in  the  twilight,  we  went  in  pursuit  of  this 
property,  and  at  length,  after  long  straining  of  the  eyes,  its 
green  disk  was  discovered  far  down  the  river,  gently  floating 


216  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

seaward  with  many  twigs  and  leaves  from  the  mountains 
that  evening,  and  so  perfectly  balanced  that  it  had  not 
keeled  at  all,  and  no  water  had  run  in  at  the  tap  which  had 
been  taken  out  to  hasten  its  cooling. 

As  we  sat  on  the  bank  eating  our  supper,  the  clear  light 
of  the  western  sky  fell  on  the  eastern  trees  and  was  reflected 
in  the  water,  and  we  enjoyed  so  serene  an  evening  as  left 
nothing  to  describe.  For  the  most  part  we  think  that  there 
are  few  degrees  of  sublimity,  and  that  the  highest  is  but  little 
higher  than  that  which  we  now  behold ;  but  we  are  always 
deceived.  Sublimer  visions  appear,  and  the  former  pale 
and  fade  away.  We  are  grateful  when  we  are  reminded 
by  interior  evidence,  of  the  permanence  of  universal  laws; 
for  our  faith  is  but  faintly  remembered,  indeed,  is  not  a 
remembered  assurance,  but  a  use  and  enjoyment  of  knowl- 
edge. It  is  when  we  do  not  have  to  believe,  but  come  into 
actual  contact  with  Truth,  and  are  related  to  her  in  the  most 
direct  and  intimate  way.  Waves  of  serener  life  pass  over 
us  from  time  to  time,  like  flakes  of  sunlight  over  the  fields 
in  cloudy  weather.  In  some  happier  moment,  when  more 
sap  flows  in  the  withered  stalk  of  our  life,  Syria  and  India 
stretch  away  from  our  present  as  they  do  in  history.  All 
the  events  which  make  the  annals  of  the  nations  are  but  the 
shadows  of  our  private  experiences.  Suddenly  and  silently 
the  eras  which  we  call  history  awake  and  glimmer  in  us, 
and  there  is  room  for  Alexander  and  Hannibal  to  march 
and  conquer.  In  other  words,  the  history  which  we  read 
is  only  a  fainter  memory  of  events  which  have  happened 
in  our  own  experience.  Tradition  is  a  more  interrupted 
and  feebler  memory. 

This  world  is  but  canvass  to  our  imaginations.  I  see  men 
with  infinite  pains  endeavoring  to  realize  to  their  bodies, 
what  I,  with  at  least  equal  pains,  would  realize  to  my  imagi- 
nation, —  its  capacities ;  for  certainly  there  is  a  life  of  the 
mind  above  the  wants  of  the  body  and  independent  of  it. 
Often  the  body  is  warmed,  but  the  imagination  is  torpid; 
the  body  is  fat,  but  the  imagination  is  lean  and  shrunk. 
But  what  avails  all  other  wealth  if  this  is  wanting?  "  Imagi- 
nation is  the  air  of  mind,"  in  which  it  lives  and  breathes. 
All  things  are  as  I  am.  Where  is  the  House  of  Change? 
The  past  is  only  so  heroic  as  we  see  it.  It  is  the  canvass  on 
which  our  idea  of  heroism  is  painted,  and  so,  in  one  sense, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  217 

the  dim  prospectus  of  our  future  field.  Our  circumstances 
answer  to  our  expectations  and  the  demand  of  our  natures. 
I  have  noticed  that  if  a  man  thinks  that  he  needs  a  thousand 
dollars,  and  cannot  be  convinced  that  he  does  not,  he  will 
commonly  be  found  to  have  them,  if  he  lives  and  thinks 
a  thousand  dollars  will  be  forthcoming,  though  it  be  to  buy- 
shoe  strings  with.  A  thousand  mills  will  be  just  as  slow 
to  come  to  one  who  finds  it  equally  hard  to  convince  himself 
that  he  needs  them. 

Men  are  by  birth  equal  in  this,  that  given 
Themselves  and  their  condition,  they  are  even. 

I  am  astonished  at  the  singular  pertinacity  and  endurance 
of  our  lives.  The  miracle  is,  that  what  is  is,  when  it  is  so 
difficult,  if  not  impossible,  for  anything  else  to  be ;  that  we 
walk  on  in  our  particular  paths  so  far,  before  we  fall  on 
death  and  fate,  merely  because  we  must  walk  in  some  path ; 
that  every  man  can  get  a  living,  and  so  few  can  do  any 
more.  So  much  only  can  I  accomplish  ere  health  and 
strength  are  gone,  and  yet  this  suffices.  The  bird  now  sits 
just  out  of  gunshot.  I  am  never  rich  in  money,  and  I  am 
never  meanly  poor.  If  debts  are  incurred,  why,  debts  are 
in  the  course  of  events  cancelled,  as  it  were  by  the  same 
law  by  which  they  were  incurred.  I  heard  that  an  engage- 
ment was  entered  into  between  a  certain  youth  and  a  maiden, 
and  then  I  heard  that  it  was  broken  off,  but  I  did  not  know 
the  reason  in  either  case.  We  are  hedged  about,  we  think, 
by  accident  and  circumstance,  now  we  creep  as  in  a  dream, 
and  now  again  we  run,  as  if  there  were  a  fate  in  it  and  all 
things  thwarted  or  assisted.  I  cannot  change  my  clothes 
but  when  I  do,  and  yet  I  do  change  them,  and  soil  the  new 
ones.  It  is  wonderful  that  this  gets  done,  when  some  ad- 
mirable deeds  which  I  could  mention  do  not  get  done.  Our 
particular  lives  seem  of  such  fortune  and  confident  strength 
and  durability  as  piers  of  solid  rock  thrown  forward  into 
the  tide  of  circumstance.  When  every  other  path  would 
fail,  with  singular  and  unerring  confidence  we  advance  on 
our  particular  course.  What  risks  we  run!  famine  and 
fire  and  pestilence,  and  the  thousand  forms  of  a  cruel  fate,  — 
and  yet  every  man  lives  till  he  —  dies.  How  did  he  manage 
that?  Is  there  no  immediate  danger?  We  wonder  super- 
fluously when  we  hear  of  a  somnambulist  walking  a  plank 


218  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

securely,  —  we  have  walked  a  plank  all  our  lives  up  to  this 
particular  string-piece  where  we  are.  My  life  will  wait  for 
nobody,  but  is  being  matured  still  without  delay,  while 
I  go  about  the  streets  and  chaffer  with  this  man  and  that 
to  secure  a  living.  It  is  as  indifferent  and  easy  meanwhile 
as  a  poor  man's  dog,  and  making  acquaintance  with  its  kind. 
It  will  cut  its  own  channel  like  a  mountain  stream,  and  by 
the  longest  ridge  is  not  kept  from  the  sea  at  last.  I  have 
found  all  things  thus  far,  persons  and  inanimate  matter, 
elements  and  seasons,  strangely  adapted  to  my  resources. 
No  matter  what  imprudent  haste  in  my  career;  I  am  per- 
mitted to  be  rash.  Gulfs  are  bridged  in  a  twinkling,  as 
if  some  unseen  baggage  train  carried  pontoons  for  my  con- 
venience, and  while  from  the  heights  I  scan  the  tempting 
but  unexplored  Pacific  Ocean  of  Futurity,  the  ship  is  being 
carried  over  the  mountains  piecemeal  on  the  backs  of  mules 
and  llamas,  whose  keel  shall  plow  its  waves  and  bear  me  to  the 
Indies.    Day  would  not  dawn  if  it  were  not  for  , 

THE  INWARD  MORNING 

Packed  in  my  mind  lie  all  the  clothes 

Which  outward  nature  wears, 
And  in  its  fashion's  hourly  change 

It  all  things  else  repairs. 

In  vain  I  look  for  change  abroad, 

And  can  no  difference  find, 
Till  some  new  ray  of  peace  uncalled 

Illumes  my  inmost  mind. 

What  is  it  gilds  the  trees  and  clouds, 

And  paints  the  heavens  so  gay, 
But  yonder  fast  abiding  light 

With  its  unchanging  ray? 

Lo,  when  the  sun  streams  through  the  wood, 

Upon  a  winter's  morn, 
Where'er  his  silent  beams  intrude 

The  murky  night  is  gone. 

How  could  the  patient  pine  have  known 

The  morning  breeze  would  come, 
Or  humble  flowers  anticipate 

The  insect's  noonday  hum,  — 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  219 

Till  the  new  light  with  morning  cheer 
From  far  streamed  through  the  aisles, 

And  nimbly  told  the  forest  trees 
For  many  stretching  miles  ? 

I've  heard  within  my  inmost  soul 

Such  cheerful  morning  news, 
In  the  horizon  of  my  mind 

Have  seen  such  orient  hues, 

As  in  the  twilight  of  the  dawn, 

When  the  first  birds  awake, 
Are  heard  within  some  silent  wood, 

Where  they  the  small  twigs  break, 

Or  in  the  eastern  skies  are  seen, 

Before  the  sun  appears, 
The  harbingers  of  summer  heats 

Which  from  afar  he  bears. 

Whole  weeks  and  months  of  my  summer  life  slide  away  in 
thin  volumes  like  mist  and  smoke,  till  at  length,  some  warm 
morning,  perchance,  I  see  a  sheet  of  mist  blown  down  the 
brook  to  the  swamp,  and  I  float  as  high  above  the  fields 
with  it.  I  can  recall  to  mind  the  stillest  summer  hours, 
in  which  the  grasshopper  sings  over  the  mulleins,  and  there 
is  a  valor  in  that  time  the  bare  memory  of  which  is  armor 
that  can  laugh  at  any  blow  of  fortune.  For  our  lifetime  the 
strains  of  a  harp  are  heard  to  swell  and  die  alternately, 
and  death  is  but  "  the  pause  when  the  blast  is  recollecting 
itself." 

We  lay  awake  a  long  while,  listening  to  the  murmurs  of 
the  brook,  in  the  angle  formed  by  whose  bank  with  the  river 
our  tent  was  pitched,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  human  interest 
in  its  story,  which  ceases  not  in  freshet  or  in  drought  the 
livelong  summer,  and  the  profounder  lapse  of  the  river  was 
quite  drowned  by  its  din.    But  the  rill,  whose 

"Silver  sands  and  pebbles  sing 
Eternal  ditties  with  the  spring," 

is  silenced  by  the  first  frosts  of  winter,  while  mightier  streams, 
on  whose  bottom  the  sun  never  shines,  clogged  with  sunken 
rocks  and  the  ruins  of  forests,  from  whose  surface  comes  up 


220  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

no  murmur,  are  strangers  to  the  icy  fetters  which  bind  fast 
a  thousand  contributary  rills. 

I  dreamed  this  night  of  an  event  which  had  occurred  long 
before.  It  was  a  difference  with  a  Friend,  which  had  not 
ceased  to  give  me  pain,  though  I  had  no  cause  to  blame  my- 
self. But  in  my  dream  ideal  justice  was  at  length  done  me 
for  his  suspicions,  and  I  received  that  compensation  which 
I  had  never  obtained  in  my  waking  hours.  I  was  unspeak- 
ably soothed  and  rejoiced,  even  after  I  awoke,  because  in 
dreams  we  never  deceive  ourselves,  nor  are  deceived,  and 
this  seemed  to  have  the  authority  of  a  final  judgment. 

We  bless  and  curse  ourselves.  Some  dreams  are  divine, 
as  well  as  some  waking  thoughts.    Donne  sings  of  one 

"Who  dreamt  devoutlier  than  most  use  to  pray." 

Dreams  are  the  touchstones  of  our  characters.  We  are 
scarcely  less  afflicted  when  we  remember  some  unworthiness 
in  our  conduct  in  a  dream,  than  if  it  had  been  actual,  and  the 
intensity  of  our  grief,  which  is  our  atonement,  measures 
inversely  the  degree  by  which  this  is  separated  from  an  actual 
unworthiness.  For  in  dreams  we  but  act  a  part  which  must 
have  been  learned  and  rehearsed  in  our  waking  hours,  and 
no  doubt  could  discover  some  waking  consent  thereto.  If 
this  meanness  has  not  its  foundation  in  us,  why  are  we 
grieved  at  it?  In  dreams  we  see  ourselves  naked  and  acting 
out  our  real  characters,  even  more  clearly  than  we  see  others 
awake.  But  an  unwavering  and  commanding  virtue  would 
compel  even  its  most  fantastic  and  faintest  dreams  to  respect 
its  ever  wakeful  authority;  as  we  are  accustomed  to  say 
carelessly,  we  should  never  have  dreamed  of  such  a  thing. 
Our  truest  life  is  when  we  are  in  dreams  awake. 

"And,  more  to  lull  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe, 
And  ever-drizzling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noyse,  nor  people's  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard ;  but  careless  Quiet  lyes 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  farre  from  enemyes." 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  221 


THURSDAY 

1  He  trode  the  unplanted  forest  floor,  whereon 
The  all-seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone, 
Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 
And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker. 


Where  darkness  found  him  he  lay  glad  at  night ; 
There  the  red  morning  touched  him  with  its  light. 


Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home, 
His  hearth  the  earth,  —  his  hall  the  azure  dome ; 
Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there's  his  road, 
By  God's  own  light  illumined  and  foreshowed." 

—  Emerson. 

When  we  awoke  this  morning,  we  heard  the  faint  deliberate 
and  ominous  sound  of  rain  drops  on  our  cotton  roof.  The 
rain  had  pattered  all  night,  and  now  the  whole  country  wept, 
the  drops  falling  in  the  river,  and  on  the  alders,  and  in  the 
pastures,  and  instead  of  any  bow  in  the  heavens,  there  was 
the  trill  of  the  tree-sparrow  all  the  morning.  The  cheery 
faith  of  this  little  bird  atoned  for  the  silence  of  the  whole 
woodland  quire  besides.  When  we  first  stepped  abroad, 
a  flock  of  sheep,  led  by  their  rams,  came  rushing  down  a 
ravine  in  our  rear,  with  heedless  haste  and  unreserved  frisk- 
ing, as  if  unobserved  by  man,  from  some  higher  pasture 
where  they  had  spent  the  night,  to  taste  the  herbage  by  the 
river-side ;  but  when  their  leaders  caught  sight  of  our  white 
tent  through  the  mist,  struck  with  sudden  astonishment, 
with  their  fore  feet  braced,  they  sustained  the  rushing  torrent 
in  their  rear,  and  the  whole  flock  stood  still,  endeavoring 
to  solve  the  mystery  in  their  sheepish  brains.  At  length, 
concluding  that  it  boded  no  mischief  to  them,  they  spread 
themselves  out  quietly  over  the  field.  We  learned  after- 
ward that  we  had  pitched  our  tent  on  the  very  spot  which 
a  few  summers  before  had  been  occupied  by  a  party  of 
Penobscots.  We  could  see  rising  before  us  through  the 
mist  a  dark  conical  eminence  called  Hooksett  Pinnacle, 
a  landmark  to  boatmen,  and  also  Uncannunuc  Mountain, 
broad  off  on  the  west  side  of  the  river. 


222  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

This  was  the  limit  of  our  voyage,  for  a  few  hours  more 
in  the  rain  would  have  taken  us  to  the  last  of  the  locks,  and 
our  boat  was  too  heavy  to  be  dragged  around  the  long  and 
numerous  rapids  which  would  occur.  On  foot,  however, 
we  continued  up  along  the  bank,  feeling  our  way  with  a 
stick  through  the  showery  and  foggy  day,  and  climbing  over 
the  slippery  logs  in  our  path  with  as  much  pleasure  and 
buoyancy  as  in  brightest  sunshine;  scenting  the  fragrance 
of  the  pines  and  the  wet  clay  under  our  feet,  and  cheered 
by  the  tones  of  invisible  waterfalls;  with  visions  of  toad- 
stools, and  wandering  frogs,  and  festoons  of  moss  hanging 
from  the  spruce  trees,  and  thrushes  flitting  silent  under  the 
leaves ;  our  road  still  holding  together  through  that  wettest 
of  weather,  like  faith,  while  we  confidently  followed  its  lead. 
We  managed  to  keep  our  thoughts  dry,  however,  and  only 
our  clothes  were  wet.  It  was  altogether  a  cloudy  and  driz- 
zling day,  with  occasional  brightenings  in  the  mist,  when 
the  trill  of  the  tree-sparrow  seemed  to  be  ushering  in  sunny 
hours. 

"  Nothing  that  naturally  happens  to  man,  can  hurt  him, 
earthquakes  and  thunder  storms  not  excepted,"  said  a  man 
of  genius,  who  at  this  time  lived  a  few  miles  further  on  our 
road.  When  compelled  by  a  shower  to  take  shelter  under 
a  tree,  we  may  improve  that  opportunity  for  a  more  minute 
inspection  of  some  of  Nature's  works.  I  have  stood  under 
a  tree  in  the  woods  half  a  day  at  a  time,  during  a  heavy  rain 
in  the  summer,  and  yet  employed  myself  happily  and  profit- 
ably there  prying  with  microscopic  eye  into  the  crevices 
of  the  bark  or  the  leaves  or  the  fungi  at  my  feet.  "  Riches 
are  the  attendants  of  the  miser :  and  the  heavens  rain  plente- 
ously  upon  the  mountains."  I  can  fancy  that  it  would  be 
a  luxury  to  stand  up  to  one's  chin  in  some  retired  swamp 
a  whole  summer  day,  scenting  the  wild  honeysuckle  and 
bilberry  blows,  and  lulled  by  the  minstrelsy  of  gnats  and 
mosquitoes!  A  day  passed  in  the  society  of  those  Greek 
sages,  such  as  described  in  the  Banquet  of  Xenophon,  would 
not  be  comparable  with  the  dry  wet  of  decayed  cranberry 
vines,  and  the  fresh  Attic  salt  of  the  moss-beds.  Say  twelve 
hours  of  genial  and  familiar  converse  with  the  leopard  frog ; 
the  sun  to  rise  behind  alder  and  dogwood,  and  climb  buoy- 
antly to  his  meridian  of  two  hands'  breadth,  and  finally  sink 
to  rest  behind  some  bold  western  hummock.    To  hear  the 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  223 

evening  chant  of  the  mosquito  from  a  thousand  green  chapels, 
and  the  bittern  begin  to  boom  from  some  concealed  fort 
like  a  sunset  gun !  —  Surely  one  may  as  profitably  be  soaked 
in  the  juices  of  swamp  for  one  day  as  pick  his  way  dry-shod 
over  sand.  Cold  and  damp,  —  are  they  not  as  rich  experi- 
ence as  warmth  and  dryness? 

At  present,  the  drops  come  trickling  down  the  stubble 
while  we  lie  drenched  on  a  bed  of  withered  wild  oats,  by  the 
side  of  a  bushy  hill,  and  the  gathering  in  of  the  clouds,  with 
the  last  rush  and  dying  breath  of  the  wind,  and  then  the 
regular  dripping  of  twigs  and  leaves  the  country  over,  en- 
hance the  sense  of  inward  comfort  and  sociableness.  The 
birds  draw  closer  and  are  more  familiar  under  the  thick 
foliage,  seemingly  composing  new  strains  upon  their  roosts 
against  the  sunshine.  What  were  the  amusements  of  the 
drawing  room  and  the  library  in  comparison,  if  we  had  them 
here?    We  should  still  sing  as  of  old,  — 

My  books  I'd  fain  cast  off,  I  cannot  read, 
'Twixt  every  page  my  thoughts  go  stray  at  large 
Down  in  the  meadow,  where  is  richer  feed, 
And  will  not  mind  to  hit  their  proper  targe. 

Plutarch  was  good,  and  so  was  Homer  too, 
Our  Shakspeare's  life  was  rich  to  live  again  ; 
What  Plutarch  read,  that  was  not  good  nor  true, 
Nor  Shakspeare's  books,  unless  his  books  were  men. 

Here  while  I  lie  beneath  this  walnut  bough, 
What  care  I  for  the  Greeks  or  for  Troy  town, 
If  juster  battles  are  enacted  now 
Between  the  ants  upon  this  hummock's  crown? 

Bid  Homer  wait  till  I  the  issue  learn, 
If  red  or  black  the  gods  will  favor  most, 
Or  yonder  Ajax  will  the  phalanx  turn, 
Struggling  to  heave  some  rock  against  the  host. 

Tell  Shakspeare  to  attend  some  leisure  hour, 
For  now  I've  business  with  this  drop  of  dew, 
And  see  you  not,  the  clouds  prepare  a  shower, — 
I'll  meet  him  shortly  when  the  sky  is  blue. 

This  bed  of  herd's-grass  and  wild  oats  was  spread 
Last  year  with  nicer  skill  than  monarchs  use, 
A  clover  tuft  is  pillow  for  my  head, 
And  violets  quite  overtop  my  shoes. 


224  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

And  now  the  cordial  clouds  have  shut  all  in, 
And  gently  swells  the  wind  to  say  all's  well, 
The  scattered  drops  are  falling  fast  and  thin, 
Some  in  the  pool,  some  in  the  flower-bell. 

I  am  well  drenched  upon  my  bed  of  oats ; 
But  see  that  globe  come  rolling  down  its  stem, 
Now  like  a  lonely  planet  there  it  floats, 
And  now  it  sinks  into  my  garment's  hem. 

Drip,  drip  the  trees  for  all  the  country  round, 
And  richness  rare  distills  from  every  bough, 
The  wind  alone  it  is  makes  every  sound, 
Shaking  down  crystals  on  the  leaves  below. 

For  shame  the  sun  will  never  show  himself, 
Who  could  not  with  his  beams  e'er  melt  me  so, 
My  dripping  locks  —  they  would  become  an  elf, 
Who  in  a  beaded  coat  does  gaily  go. 

The  Pinnacle  is  a  small  wooded  hill  which  rises  very 
abruptly  to  the  height  of  about  two  hundred  feet,  near  the 
shore  at  Hno|cs^,t  "Fa.11i=t.  As  Uncannunuc  Mountain  is 
perhaps  the  best  point  Irom  which  to  view  the  valley  of  the 
Merrimack,  so  this  hill  affords  the  best  view  of  the  river 
itself.  I  have  sat  upon  its  summit,  a  precipitous  rock  only 
a  few  rods  long,  in  fairer  weather,  when  the  sun  was  setting 
and  filling  the  river  valley  with  a  flood  of  light.  You  can 
see  up  and  down  the  Merrimack  several  miles  each  way. 
The  broad  and  straight  river,  full  of  light  and  life,  with  its 
sparkling  and  foaming  falls,  the  islet  which  divides  the 
stream,  the  village  of  Hooksett  on  the  shore  almost  directly 
under  your  feet,  so  near  that  you  can  converse  with  its 
inhabitants  or  throw  a  stone  into  its  yards,  the  woodland 
lake  at  its  western  base,  and  the  mountains  in  the  north 
and  north-east,  make  a  scene  of  rare  beauty  and  complete- 
ness, which  the  traveller  should  take  pains  to  behold. 

We  were  hospitably  entertained  in  Concord  in  New  Hamp- 
shire, which  we  persisted  in  calling  New  Concord,  as  we  had 
been  wont,  to  distinguish  it  from  our  native  town,  from 
which  we  had  been  told  that  it  was  named  and  in  part 
originally  settled.  This  would  have  been  the  proper  place 
to  conclude  our  voyage,  uniting  Concord  with  Concord  by 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  225 

these  meandering  rivers,  but  our  boat  was  moored  some 
miles  below  its  port. 

The  richness  of  the  intervals  at  Penacook,  now  Concord 
in  New  Hampshire,  had  been  observed  by  explorers,  and, 
according  to  the  historian  of  Haverhill,  in  the  "  year  1726, 
considerable  progress  was  made  in  the  settlement,  and  a  road 
was  cut  through  the  wilderness  from  Haverhill  to  Penacook. 
In  the  fall  of  1727,  the  first  family,  that  of  Capt.  Ebenezer 
Eastman,  moved  into  the  place.  His  team  was  driven  by 
Jacob  Shute,  who  was  by  birth  a  Frenchman,  and  he  is  said 
to  have  been  the  first  person  who  drove  a  team  through 
the  wilderness.  Soon  after,  says  tradition,  one  Ayer,  a  lad 
of  18,  drove  a  team  consisting  of  ten  yoke  of  oxen  to  Pena- 
cook, swam  the  river,  and  plowed  a  portion  of  the  interval. 
He  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  first  person  who  plowed  land 
in  that  place.  After  he  had  completed  his  work,  he  started 
on  his  return  at  sunrise,  drowned  a  yoke  of  oxen  while  recross- 
ing  the  river,  and  arrived  at  Haverhill  about  midnight. 
The  crank  of  the  first  saw-mill  was  manufactured  in  Haver- 
hill, and  carried  to  Penacook  on  a  horse." 

But  we  found  that  the  frontiers  were  not  this  way  any 
longer.  This  generation  has  come  into  the  world  fatally 
late  for  some  enterprises.  Go  where  we  will  on  the  surface 
of  things,  men  have  been  there  before  us.  We  cannot  now 
have  the  pleasure  of  erecting  the  last  house ;  that  was  long 
ago  set  up  in  the  suburbs  of  Astoria  city,  and  our  boundaries 
have  literally  been  run  to  the  South  Sea,  according  to  the 
old  patents.  But  the  lives  of  men,  though  more  extended 
laterally  in  their  range,  are  still  as  shallow  as  ever.  Un- 
doubtedly, as  a  western  orator  said,  "  men  generally  live 
over  about  the  same  surface;  some  live  long  and  narrow, 
and  others  live  broad  and  short ;  "  but  it  is  all  superficial 
living.  A  worm  is  as  good  a  traveller  as  a  grasshopper  or 
a  cricket,  and  a  much  wiser  settler.  With  all  their  activity 
these  do  not  hop  away  from  drought  nor  forward  to  summer. 
We  do  not  avoid  evil  by  fleeing  before  it,  but  by  rising  above 
or  diving  below  its  plane;  as  the  worm  escapes  drought 
and  frost  by  boring  a  few  inches  deeper.  The  frontiers 
are  not  east  or  west,  north  or  south,  but  wherever  a  man 
fronts  a  fact,  though  that  fact  be  his  neighbor,  there  is  an 
unsettled  wilderness  between  him  and  Canada,  between 
him  and  the  setting  sun,  or,  further  still,  between  him  and  it. 


226  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Let  him  build  himself  a  log-house  with  the  bark  on  where  he 
is,  fronting  it,  and  wage  there  an  Old  French  war  for  seven 
or  seventy  years,  with  Indians  and  Rangers,  or  whatever 
else  may  come  between  him  and  the  reality,  and  save  his  scalp 
if  he  can. 

We  now  no  longer  sailed  or  floated  on  the  river,  but  trod 
the  unyielding  land  like  pilgrims.  Sadi  tells  who  may  travel ; 
among  others,  —  "  A  common  mechanic,  who  can  earn  a 
subsistence  by  the  industry  of  his  hand,  and  shall  not  have 
to  stake  his  reputation  for  every  morsel  of  bread,  as  philoso- 
phers have  said."  —  He  may  travel  who  can  subsist  on  the 
wild  fruits  and  game  of  the  most  cultivated  country.  A  man 
may  travel  fast  enough  and  earn  his  living  on  the  road. 
I  have  frequently  been  applied  to  to  do  work  when  on  a 
journey;  to  do  tinkering  and  repair  clocks,  when  I  had 
a  knapsack  on  my  back.  A  man  once  applied  to  me  to  go 
into  a  factory,  stating  conditions  and  wages,  observing  that 
I  succeeded  in  shutting  the  window  of  a  railroad  car  in 
which  we  were  travelling,  when  the  other  passengers  had 
failed.  "  Hast  thou  not  heard  of  a  Sufi,  who  was  hammering 
some  nails  into  the  sole  of  his  sandal ;  an  officer  of  cavalry 
took  him  by  the  sleeve,  saying,  come  along  and  shoe  my 
horse."  Farmers  have  asked  me  to  assist  them  in  haying, 
when  I  was  passing  their  fields.  A  man  once  applied  to  me  to 
mend  his  umbrella,  taking  me  for  an  umbrella  mender, 
because,  being  on  a  journey,  I  carried  an  umbrella  in  my 
hand  while  the  sun  shone.  Another  wished  to  buy  a  tin 
cup  of  me,  observing  that  I  had  one. strapped  to  my  belt, 
and  a  sauce-pan  on  my  back.  The  cheapest  way  to  travel, 
and  the  way  to  travel  the  furthest  in  the  shortest  distance, 
is  to  go  afoot,  carrying  a  dipper,  a  spoon,  and  a  fish-line, 
some  Indian  meal,  some  salt,  and  some  sugar.  When  you 
come  to  a  brook  or  pond,  you  can  catch  fish  and  cook  them ; 
or  you  can  boil  a  hasty-pudding;  or  you  can  buy  a  loaf 
of  bread  at  a  farmer's  house  for  fourpence,  moisten  it  in  the 
next  brook  that  crosses  the  road,  and  dip  into  it  your  sugar,  — 
this  alone  will  last  you  a  whole  day ;  —  or,  if  you  are  ac- 
customed to  heartier  living,  you  can  buy  a  quart  of  milk 
for  two  cents,  crumb  your  bread  or  cold  pudding  into  it,  and 
eat  it  with  your  own  spoon  out  of  your  own  dish.  Any  one 
of  these  things  I  mean,  not  all  together.    I  have  travelled 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  227 

thus  some  hundreds  of  miles  without  taking  any  meal  in 
a  house,  sleeping  on  the  ground  when  convenient,  and  found 
it  cheaper,  and  in  many  respects  more  profitable,  than 
staying  at  home.  So  that  some  have  inquired  why  it  would 
not  be  best  to  travel  always.  But  I  never  thought  of  travel- 
ling simply  bs  a  means  of  getting  a  livelihood.  A  simple 
woman  down  in  Tyngsboro',  at  whose  house  I  once  stopped 
to  get  a  draught  of  water,  when  I  said,  recognizing  the 
bucket,  that  I  had  stopped  there  nine  years  before  for  the 
same  purpose,  asked  if  I  was  not  a  traveller,  supposing  that 
I  had  been  travelling -ever  since,  and  had  now  come  round 
again,  that  travelling  was  one  of  the  professions,  more  or 
less  productive,  which  her  husband  did  not  follow.  But 
continued  travelling  is  far  from  productive.  It  begins  with 
wearing  away  the  soles  of  the  shoes,  and  making  the  feet 
sore,  and  ere  long  it  will  wear  a  man  clean  up,  after  making 
his  heart  sore  into  the  bargain.  I  have  observed  that  the 
after-life  of  those  who  have  travelled  much  is  very  pathetic. 
True  and  sincere  travelling  is  no  pastime,  but  it  is  as  serious 
as  the  grave,  or  any  other  part  of  the  human  journey,  and  it 
requires  a  long  probation  to  be  broken  into  it.  I  do  not 
speak  of  those  that  travel  sitting,  the  sedentary  travellers 
whose  legs  hang  dangling  the  while,  mere  idle  symbols  of 
the  fact,  any  more  than  when  we  speak  of  setting  hens  we 
mean  those  that  sit  standing,  but  I  mean  those  to  whom 
travelling  is  life  for  the  legs.  The  traveller  must  be  born 
again  on  the  road,  and  earn  a  passport  from  the  elements, 
the  principal  powers  that  be  for  him.  He  shall  experience 
at  last  that  old  threat  of  his  mother  fulfilled,  that  he  shall 
be  skinned  alive.  His  sores  shall  gradually  deepen  them- 
selves that  they  may  heal  inwardly,  while  he  gives  no  rest 
to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  and  at  night  weariness  must  be  his 
pillow,  that  so  he  may  acquire  experience  against  his  rainy 
days.  —  So  was  it  with  us. 

Sometimes  we  lodged  at  an  inn  in  the  woods,  where  trout- 
fishers  from  distant  cities  had  arrived  before  us,  and  where, 
to  our  astonishment,  the  settlers  dropped  in  at  night-fall 
to  have  a  chat  and  hear  the  news,  though  there  was  but  one 
road,  and  no  other  house  was  visible,  —  as  if  they  had  come 
out  of  the  earth.  There  we  sometimes  read  old  newspapers, 
who  never  before  read  new  ones,  and  in  the  rustle  of  their 
leaves  heard  the  dashing  of  the  surf  along  the  Atlantic  shore, 


228  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

instead  of  the  sough  of  the  wind  among  the  pines.  But 
then  walking  had  given  us  an  appetite  even  for  the  least 
palatable  and  nutritious  food. 

Some  hard  and  dry  book  in  a  dead  language,  which  you 
have  found  it  impossible  to  read  at  home,  but  for  which 
you  have  still  a  lingering  regard,  is  the  best  to  carry  with 
you  on  a  journey.  At  a  country  inn,  in  the  barren  society 
of  ostlers  and  travellers,  I  could  undertake  the  writers  of 
the  silver  or  the  brazen  age  with  confidence.  Almost  the  last 
regular  service  which  I  performed  in  the  cause  of  literature 
was  to  read  the  works  of 

AULUS  PERSIUS  FLACCUS 

If  you  have  imagined  what  a  divine  work  is  spread  out 
for  the  poet,  and  approach  this  author  too,  in  the  hope  of 
finding  the  field  at  length  fairly  entered  on,  you  will  hardly 
dissent  from  the  words  of  the  prologue, 

"Ipse  semipaganus 
Ad  sacra  Vatum  carmen  affero  nostrum." 

I  half  pagan 
Bring  my  verses  to  the  shrine  of  the  poets. 

Here  is  none  of  the  interior  dignity  of  Virgil,  nor  the 
elegance  and  vivacity  of  Horace,  nor  will  any  sibyl  be  needed 
to  remind  you,  that  from  those  older  Greek  poets  there  is 
a  sad  descent  to  Persius.  You  can  scarcely  distinguish  one 
harmonious  sound  amid  this  unmusical  bickering  with  the 
follies  of  men. 

One  sees  that  music  has  its  place  in  thought,  but  hardly 
as  yet  in  language.  When  the  Muse  arrives,  we  wait  for 
her  to  remould  language,  and  impart  to  it  her  own  rhythm. 
Hitherto  the  verse  groans  and  labors  with  its  load,  and  goes 
not  forward  blithely,  singing  by  the  way.  The  best  ode  may 
be  parodied,  indeed  is  itself  a  parody,  and  has  a  poor  and 
trivial  sound,  like  a  man  stepping  on  the  rounds  of  a  ladder. 
Homer,  and  Shakspeare,  and  Milton,  and  Marvel,  and 
Wordsworth,  are  but  the  rustling  of  leaves  and  crackling 
of  twigs  in  the  forest,  and  there  is  not  yet  the  sound  of  any 
bird.  The  Muse  has  never  lifted  up  her  voice  to  sing.  Most 
of  all,  satire  will  not  be  sung.    A  Juvenal  or  Persius  do  not 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  229 

marry  music  to  their  verse,  but  are  measured  fault-finders 
at  best;  stand  but  just  outside  the  faults  they  condemn, 
and  so  are  concerned  rather  about  the  monster  which  they 
have  escaped,  than  the  fair  prospect  before  them.  Let  them 
live  on  an  age,  and  they  will  have  travelled  out  of  his  shadow 
and  reach,  and  found  other  objects  to  ponder. 

As. long  as  there  is  satire,  the  poet  is,  as  it  were,  particeps 
criminis.  One  sees  not  but  he  had  best  let  bad  take  care  of 
itself,  and  have  to  do  only  with  what  is  beyond  suspicion. 
If  you  light  on  the  least  vestige  of  truth,  and  it  is  the  weight 
of  the  whole  body  still  which  stamps  the  faintest  trace,  an 
eternity  will  not  suffice  to  extol  it,  while  no  evil  is  so  huge, 
but  you  grudge  to  bestow  on  it  a  moment  of  hate.  Truth 
never  turns  to  rebuke  falsehood;  her  own  straightforward- 
ness is  the  severest  correction.  Horace  would  not  have 
written  satire  so  well  if  he  had  not  been  inspired  by  it,  as 
by  a  passion,  and  fondly  cherished  his  vein.  In  his  odes, 
the  love  always  exceeds  the  hate,  so  that  the  severest  satire 
still  sings  itself,  and  the  poet  is  satisfied,  though  the  folly 
be  not  corrected. 

A  sort  of  necessary  order  in  the  development  of  Genius 
is,  first,  Complaint;  second,  Plaint;  third,  Love.  Com- 
plaint, which  is  the  condition  of  Persius,  lies  not  in  the 
province  of  poetry.  Ere  long  the  enjoyment  of  a  superior 
good  would  have  changed  his  disgust  into  regret.  We  can 
never  have  much  sympathy  with  the  complainer ;  for  after 
searching  nature  through,  we  conclude  that  he  must  be 
both  plaintiff  and  defendant  too,  and  so  had  best  come  to 
a  settlement  without  a  hearing.  He  who  receives  an  injury 
is  to  some  extent  an  accomplice  of  the  wrong  doer. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  truer  to  say,  that  the  highest  strain 
of  the  muse  is  essentially  plaintive.  The  saint's  are  still 
tears  of  joy.     Who  has  ever  heard  the  Innocent  sing? 

But  the  divinest  poem,  or  the  life  of  a  great  man,  is  the 
severest  satire;  as  impersonal  as  Nature  herself,  and  like 
the  sighs  of  her  winds  in  the  woods,  which  convey  ever  a 
slight  reproof  to  the  hearer.  The  greater  the  genius,  the 
keener  the  edge  of  the  satire. 

Hence  we  have  to  do  only  with  the  rare  and  fragmentary 
traits,  which  least  belong  to  Persius,  or  shall  we  say,  are 
the  properest  utterances  of  his  muse ;  since  that  which  he 
says  best  at  any  time  is  what  he  can  best  say  at  all  times. 


230  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

The  Spectators  and  Ramblers  have  not  failed  to  cull  some 
quotable  sentences  from  this  garden  too,  so  pleasant  is  it  to 
meet  even  the  most  familiar  truth  in  a  new  dress,  when,  if 
our  neighbor  had  said  it,  we  should  have  passed  it  by  as 
hackneyed.  Out  of  these  six  satires,  you  may  perhaps  select 
some  twenty  lines,  which  fit  so  well  as  many  thoughts,  that 
they  will  recur  to  the  scholar  almost  as  readily  as  a  natural 
image;  though  when  translated  into  familiar  language, 
they  lose  that  insular  emphasis,  which  fitted  them  for  quo- 
tation. Such  lines  as  the  following,  translation  cannot 
render  common-place.  Contrasting  the  man  of  true  religion 
with  those  who,  with  jealous  privacy,  would  fain  carry  on 
a  secret  commerce  with  the  gods,  he  says,  — 

"Haud  cuivis  promptum  est,  murmurque  humilesque  susurros, 
Tollere  de  templis ;  et  aperto  vivere  voto." 

It  is  not  easy  for  every  one  to  take  murmurs  and  low 
Whispers  out  of  the  temples,  and  live  with  open  vow. 

To  the  virtuous  man,  the  universe  is  the  only  sanctum 
sanctorum,  and  the  penetralia  of  the  temple  are  the  broad 
noon  of  his  existence.  Why  should  he  betake  himself  to 
a  subterranean  crypt,  as  if  it  were  the  only  holy  ground  in 
all  the  world  which  he  had  left  unprofaned?  The  obedient 
soul  would  only  the  more  discover  and  familiarize  things, 
and  escape  more  and  more  into  light  and  air,  as  having 
henceforth  done  with  secrecy,  so  that  the  universe  shall  not 
seem  open  enough  for  it.  At  length,  it  is  neglectful  even  of 
that  silence  which  is  consistent  with  true  modesty,  but  by  its 
independence  of  all  confidence  in  its  disclosures,  makes  that 
which  it  imparts  so  private  to  the  hearer,  that  it  becomes  the 
care  of  the  whole  world  that  modesty  be  not  infringed. 

To  the  man  who  cherishes  a  secret  in  his  breast,  there  is 
a  still  greater  secret  unexplored.  Our  most  indifferent  acts 
may  be  matter  for  secrecy,  but  whatever  we  do  with  the  ut- 
most truthfulness  and  integrity,  by  virtue  of  its  pureness, 
must  be  transparent  as  light. 

In  the  third  satire,  he  asks, 

"Est  aliquid  quo  tendis,  et  in  quod  dirigis  arcum? 
An  passim  sequeris  corvos,  testave,  lutove, 
Securus  qu6  pes  ferat,  atque  ex  tempore  vivis?" 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  231 

Is  there  anything  to  which  thou  tendest,  and  against  which 

thou  directest  thy  bow? 
Or  dost  thou  pursue  crows,  at  random,  with  pottery  or  clay, 
Careless  whither  thy  feet  bear  thee,  and  live  ex  tempore  ? 

The  bad  sense  is  always  a  secondary  one.  Language 
does  not  appear  to  have  justice  done  it,  but  is  obviously 
cramped  and  narrowed  in  its  significance,  when  any  mean- 
ness is  described.  The  truest  construction  is  not  put  upon 
it.  What  may  readily  be  fashioned  into  a  rule  of  wisdom, 
is  here  thrown  in  the  teeth  of  the  sluggard,  and  constitutes 
the  front  of  his  offence.  Universally,  the  innocent  man  will 
come  forth  from  the  sharpest  inquisition  and  lecturing,  the 
combined  din  of  reproof  and  commendation,  with  a  faint 
sound  of  eulogy  in  his  ears.  Our  vices  always  lie  in  the 
direction  of  our  virtues,  and  in  their  best  estate  are  but 
plausible  imitations  of  the  latter.  Falsehood  never  attains 
to  the  dignity  of  entire  falseness,  but  is  only  an  inferior  sort 
of  truth;  if  it  were  more  thoroughly  false,  it  would  incur 
danger  of  becoming  true. 

"Securus  quo  pes  ferat,  atque  ex  tempore  vivit," 

is  then  the  motto  of  a  wise  man.  For  first,  as  the  subtle 
discernment  of  the  language  would  have  taught  us,  with  all 
his  negligence  he  is  still  secure ;  but  the  sluggard,  notwith- 
standing his  heedlessness,  is  insecure. 

The  life  of  a  wise  man  is  most  of  all  extemporaneous,  for 
he  lives  out  of  an  eternity  which  includes  all  time.  The 
cunning  mind  travels  farther  back  than  Zoroaster  each 
instant,  and  comes  quite  down  to  the  present  with  its  revela- 
tion. The  utmost  thrift  and  industry  of  thinking  give  no 
man  any  stock  in  life ;  his  credit  with  the  inner  world  is  no 
better,  his  capital  no  larger.  He  must  try  his  fortune  again 
to-day  as  yesterday.  All  questions  rely  on  the  present  for 
their  solution.  Time  measures  nothing  but  itself.  The 
word  that  is  written  may  be  postponed,  but  not  that  on  the 
lip.  If  this  is  what  the  occasion  says,  let  the  occasion  say 
it.  All  the  world  is  forward  to  prompt  him  who  gets  up  to 
live  without  his  creed  in  his  pocket. 

In  the  fifth  satire,  which  is  the  best,  I  find,  — 

"Stat  contra  ratio,  et  secretam  garrit  in  aurem, 
Ne  liceat  facere  id,  quod  quis  vitiabit  agendo." 


232  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Reason  opposes,  and  whispers  in  the  secret  ear, 

That  it  is  not  lawful  to  do  that  which  one  will  spoil  by  doing. 

Only  they  who  do  not  see  how  anything  might  be  better 
done,  are  forward  to  try  their  hand  on  it.  Even  the  master 
workman  must  be  encouraged  by  the  reflection,  that  his 
awkwardness  will  be  incompetent  to  do  that  thing  harm, 
to  which  his  skill  may  fail  to  do  justice.  Here  is  no  apology 
for  neglecting  to  do  many  things  from  a  sense  of  our  in- 
capacity,—  for  what  deed  does  not  fall  maimed  and  im- 
perfect from  our  hands?  —  but  only  a  warning  to  bungle 
less. 

The  satires  of  Persius  are  the  farthest  possible  from  in- 
spired; evidently  a  chosen,  not  imposed  subject.  Perhaps 
I  have  given  him  credit  for  more  earnestness  than  is  apparent ; 
but  it  is  certain,  that  that  which  alone  we  can  call  Persius, 
which  is  forever  independent  and  consistent,  was  in  earnest, 
and  so  sanctions  the  sober  consideration  of  all.  The  artist 
and  his  work  are  not  to  be  separated.  The  most  wilfully 
foolish  man  cannot  stand  aloof  from  his  folly,  but  the  deed 
and  the  doer  together  make  ever  one  sober  fact.  There  is 
but  one  stage  for  the  peasant  and  the  actor.  The  buffoon 
cannot  bribe  you  to  laugh  always  at  his  grimaces;  they 
shall  sculpture  themselves  in  Egyptian  granite,  to  stand 
heavy  as  the  pyramids  on  the  ground  of  his  character. 

Suns  rose  and  set  and  found  us  still  on  the  dank  forest 
which  meanders  up  the  Pemigewasset,  now  more  like  an 
otter's  or  a  marten's  trail,  or  where  a  beaver  had  dragged 
his  trap,  than  where  the  wheels  of  travel  raise  a  dust ;  where 
towns  begin  to  serve  as  gores,  only  to  hold  the  earth  together. 
The  wild  pigeon  sat  secure  above  our  heads,  high  on  the  dead 
limbs  of  naval  pines,  reduced  to  a  robin's  size.  The  very 
yards  of  our  hostelries  inclined  upon  the  skirts  of  mountains, 
and,  as  we  passed,  we  looked  up  at  a  steep  angle  at  the  stems 
of  maples  waving  in  the  clouds. 

Far  up  in  the  country,  —  for  we  would  be  faithful  to  our 
experience,  —  in  Thornton,  perhaps,  we  met  a  soldier  lad 
in  the  woods,  going  to  muster  in  full  regimentals,  and  holding 
the  middle  of  fcthe  road ;  deep  in  the  forest  with  shouldered 
musket  and  military  step,  and  thoughts  of  war  and  glory 
all  to  himself.  It  was  a  sore  trial  to  the  youth,  tougher  than 
many  a  battle,  to  get  by  us  creditably  and  with  soldierlike 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  233 

bearing.  Poor  man!  He  actually  shivered  like  a  reed  in 
his  thin  military  pants,  and  by  the  time  we  had  got  up  with 
him,  all  the  sternness  that  becomes  the  soldier  had  forsaken 
his  face,  and  he  skulked  past  as  if  he  were  driving  his  father's 
sheep  under  a  sword-proof  helmet.  It  was  too  much  for 
him  to  carry  any  extra  armor  then,  who  could  not  easily  dis- 
pose of  his  natural  arms.  And  for  his  legs,  they  were  like 
heavy  artillery  in  boggy  places  ;  better  to  cut  the  traces 
and  forsake  them.  His  greaves  chafed  and  wrestled  one 
with  another  for  want  of  other  foes.  But  he  did  get  by  and 
get  off  with  all  his  munitions,  and  lived  to  fight  another 
day;  and  I  do  not  record  this  as  casting  any  suspicion  on 
his  honor  and  real  bravery  in  the  field. 

Wandering  on  through  notches  which  the  streams  had 
made,  by  the  side  and  over  the  brows  of  hoar  hills  and  moun- 
tains, across  the  stumpy,  rocky,  forested  and  bepastured 
country,  we  at  length  crossed  on  prostrate  trees  over  the 
Amonoosuck,  and  breathed  the  free  air  of  Unappropriated 
Land.  Thus,  in  fair  days  as  well  as  foul,  we  had  traced  up 
the  river  to  which  our  native  stream  is  a  tributary,  until 
from  Merrimack  it  became  the  Pemigewasset  that  leaped 
by  our  side,  and  when  we  had  passed  its  fountainhead,  the 
Wild  Amonoosuck,  whose  puny  channel  was  crossed  at  a 
stride,  guiding  us  toward  its  distant  source  among  the  moun- 
tains, and  at  length,  without  its  guidance,  we  were  enabled 
to  reach  the  summit  of  Agiocochook. 


"Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
Sweet  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die." 

—  Herbert. 


When  we  returned  to  Hooksett,  a  week  afterward,  the 
melon  man,  in  whose  corn-barn  we  had  hung  our  tent  and 
buffaloes  and  other  things  to  dry,  was  already  picking  his 
hops,  with  many  women  and  children  to  help  him.  We 
bought  one  watermelon,  the  largest  in  his  patch,  to  carry 
with  us  for  ballast.  It  was  Nathan's,  which  he  might  sell 
if  he  pleased,  having  been  conveyed  to  him  in  the  green  state, 
and  owned  daily  by  his  eyes.  After  due  consultation  with 
"Father,"  the  bargain  was  concluded,  —  we  to  buy  it  at  a 
venture  on  the  vine,  green  or  ripe,  our  risk,  and  pay  "what 


234  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

the  gentlemen  pleased."  It  proved  to  be  ripe ;  for  we  had 
had  honest  experience  in  selecting  this  fruit. 

Finding  our  boat  safe  in  its  harbor,  under  Uncannunuc 
Mountain,  with  a  fair  wind  and  the  current  in  our  favor,  we 
commenced  our  voyage  at  noon,  sitting  at  our  ease  and 
conversing,  or  in  silence  watching  for  the  last  trace  of  each 
reach  in  the  river  as  a  bend  concealed  it  from  our  view.  As 
the  season  was  further  advanced,  the  wind  now  blew  steadily 
from  the  north,  and  with  our  sail  set  we  could  occasionally 
lie  on  our  oars  without  loss  of  time.  The  lumbermen  throw- 
ing down  wood  from  the  top  of  the  high  bank,  thirty  or 
forty  feet  above  the  water,  that  it  might  be  sent  down  stream, 
paused  in  their  work  to  watch  our  retreating  sail.  By  this 
time,  indeed,  we  were  well  known  to  the  boatmen,  and  were 
hailed  as  the  Revenue  Cutter  of  the  stream.  As  we  sailed 
rapidly  down  the  river,  shut  in  between  two  mounds  of 
earth,  the  sound  of  this  timber  rolled  down  the  bank  enhanced 
the  silence  and  vastness  of  the  noon,  and  we  fancied  that 
only  the  primeval  echoes  were  awakened.  The  vision  of  a 
distant  scow  just  heaving  in  sight  round  a  headland,  also 
increased  by  contrast  the  solitude. 

Through  the  din  and  desultoriness  of  noon,  even  in  the 
most  oriental  city,  is  seen  the  fresh  and  primitive  and  savage 
nature,  in  which  Scythians,  and  Ethiopians,  and  Indians 
dwell.  What  is  echo,  what  are  light  and  shade,  day  and 
night,  ocean  and  stars,  earthquake  and  eclipse,  there?  The 
works  of  man  are  everywhere  swallowed  up  in  the  immensity 
of  Nature.  The  iEgean  Sea  is  but  Lake  Huron  still  to  the 
Indian.  Also  there  is  all  the  refinement  of  civilized  life  in 
the  woods  under  a  sylvan  garb.  The  wildest  scenes  have  an 
air  of  domesticity  and  homeliness  even  to  the  citizen,  and 
when  the  flicker's  cackle  is  heard  in  the  clearing,  he  is  re- 
minded that  civilization  has  wrought  but  little  change  there. 
Science  is  welcome  to  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  forest,  for 
there  too  nature  obeys  the  same  old  civil  laws.  The  little 
red  bug  on  the  stump  of  a  pine,  for  it  the  wind  shifts  and 
the  sun  breaks  through  the  clouds.  In  the  wildest  nature, 
there  is  not  only  the  material  of  the  most  cultivated  life,  and 
a  sort  of  anticipation  of  the  last  result,  but  a  greater  refine- 
ment already  than  is  ever  attained  by  man.  There  is  papyrus 
by  the  river-side,  and  rushes  for  light,  and  the  goose  only 
flies  overhead,  ages  before  the  studious  are  born  or  letters 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  235 

invented,  and  that  literature  which  the  former  suggest,  and 
even  from  the  first  have  rudely  served,  it  may  be  man  does 
not  yet  use  them  to  express.  Nature  is  prepared  to  welcome 
into  her  scenery  the  finest  work  of  human  art,  for  she  is 
herself  an  art  so  cunning  that  the  artist  never  appears  in 
his  work. 

Art  is  not  tame,  and  Nature  is  not  wild,  in  the  ordinary 
sense.  A  perfect  work  of  man's  art  would  also  be  wild  or 
natural  in  a  good  sense.  Man  tames  Nature  only  that  he 
may  at  last  make  her  more  free  even  than  he  found  her, 
though  he  may  never  yet  have  succeeded. 

With  this  propitious  breeze,  and  the  help  of  our  oars,  we 
soon  reached  the  Falls  of  Amoskeag,  and  the  mouth  of  the 
Piscataquoag,  and  recognized,  as  we  swept  rapidly  by,  many 
a  fair  bank  and  islet  on  which  our  eyes  had  rested  in  the  up- 
ward passage.  Our  boat  was  like  that  which  Chaucer  de- 
scribes in  his  Dream,  in  which  the  knight  took  his  departure 
from  the  island, 

"To  journey  for  his  marriage, 
And  return  with  such  an  host, 
That  wedded  might  be  least  and  most.  *  * 
Which  barge  was  as  a  man's  thought, 
After  his  pleasure  to  him  brought, 
The  queene  herself  accustomed  aye 
In  the  same  barge  to  play, 
It  needed  neither  mast  ne  rother, 
I  have  not  heard  of  such  another, 
No  master  for  the  governaunce, 
Hie  sayled  by  thought  and  pleasaunce 
Without  labor  east  and  west, 
All  was  one,  calme  or  tempest." 

So  we  sailed  this  afternoon,  thinking  of  the  saying  of  Pythag- 
oras, though  we  had  no  peculiar  right  to  remember  it,  — 
"It  is  beautiful  when  prosperity  is  present  with  intellect, 
and  when  sailing  as  it  were  with  a  prosperous  wind,  actions 
are  performed  looking  to  virtue ;  just  as  a  pilot  looks  to  the 
motions  of  the  stars."  All  the  world  reposes  in  beauty  to 
him  who  preserves  equipoise  in  his  life,  and  moves  serenely 
on  his  path  without  secret  violence;  as  he  who  sails  down 
a  stream,  he  has  only  to  steer,  keeping  his  bark  in  the  middle, 
and  carry  it  round  the  falls.    The  ripples  curled  away  in 


236  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

our  wake,  like  ringlets  from  the  head  of  a  child,  while  we 
steadily  held  on  our  course,  and  under  the  bows  we  watched 

"The  swaying  soft, 
Made  by  the  delicate  wave  parted  in  front, 
As  through  the  gentle  element  we  move 
Like  shadows  gliding  through  untroubled  dreams." 

The  forms  of  beauty  fall  naturally  around  the  path  of  him 
who  is  in  the  performance  of  his  proper  work ;  as  the  curled 
shavings  drop  from  the  plane,  and  borings  cluster  round  the 
auger.  Undulation  is  the  gentlest  and  most  ideal  of  motions, 
produced  by  one  fluid  falling  on  another.  Rippling  is  a  more 
graceful  flight.  From  a  hill-top  you  may  detect  in  it  the 
wings  of  birds  endlessly  repeated.  The  two  waving  lines 
which  represent  the  flight  of  birds  appear  to  have  been  copied 
from  the  ripple. 

The  trees  made  an  admirable  fence  to  the  landscape, 
skirting  the  horizon  on  every  side.  The  single  trees  and  the 
groves  left  standing  on  the  interval,  appeared  naturally 
disposed,  though  the  farmer  had  consulted  only  his  con- 
venience, for  he  too  falls  into  the  scheme  of  Nature.  Art 
can  never  match  the  luxury  and  superfluity  of  Nature.  In 
the  former  all  is  seen;  it  cannot  afford  concealed  wealth, 
and  is  niggardly  in  comparison ;  but  Nature,  even  when  she 
is  scant  and  thin  outwardly,  satisfies  us  still  by  the  assurance 
of  a  certain  generosity  at  the  roots.  In  swamps,  where  there 
is  only  here  and  there  an  evergreen  tree  amid  the  quaking 
moss  and  cranberry  beds,  the  bareness  does  not  suggest 
poverty.  The  double-spruce,  which  I  had  hardly  noticed 
in  gardens,  attracts  me  in  such  places,  and  now  first  I  under- 
stand why  men  try  to  make  them  grow  about  their  houses. 
But  though  there  may  be  very  perfect  specimens  in  front- 
yard  plots,  their  beauty  is  for  the  most  part  ineffectual  there, 
for  there  is  no  such  assurance  of  kindred  wealth  beneath  and 
around  them  to  make  them  show  to  advantage.  As  we  have 
said,  Nature  is  a  greater  and  more  perfect  art,  the  art  of 
God;  though,  referred  to  herself,  she  is  genius,  and  there 
is  a  similarity  between  her  operations  and  man's  art  even  in 
the  details  and  trifles.  When  the  overhanging  pine  drops 
into  the  water,  by  the  sun  and  water,  and  the  wind  rubbing 
it  against  the  shore,  its  boughs  are  worn  into  fantastic  shapes, 
and  white  and  smooth,  as  if  turned  in  a  lathe.    Man's  art 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  237 

has  wisely  imitated  those  forms  into  which  all  matter  is  most 
inclined  to  run,  as  foliage  and  fruit.  A  hammock  swung  in 
a  grove  assumes  the  exact  form  of  a  canoe,  broader  or  nar- 
rower, and  higher  or  lower  at  the  ends,  as  more  or  fewer 
persons  are  in  it,  and  it  rolls  in  the  air  with  the  motion  of 
the  body,  like  a  canoe  in  the  water.  Our  art  leaves  its  shav- 
ings and  its  dust  about ;  her  art  exhibits  itself  even  in  the 
shavings  and  the  dust  which  we  make.  She  has  perfected 
herself  by  an  eternity  of  practice.  The  world  is  well  kept ; 
no  rubbish  accumulates ;  the  morning  air  is  clear  even  at  this 
day,  and  no  dust  has  settled  on  the  grass.  Behold  how  the 
evening  now  steals  over  the  fields,  the  shadows  of  the  trees 
creeping  further  and  further  into  the  meadow,  and  ere  long 
the  stars  will  come  to  bathe  in  these  retired  waters.  Her 
undertakings  are  secure  and  never  fail.  If  I  were  awakened 
from  a  deep  sleep,  I  should  know  which  side  of  the  meridian 
the  sun  might  be  by  the  aspect  of  nature,  and  by  the  chirp 
of  the  crickets,  and  yet  no  painter  can  paint  this  difference. 
The  landscape  contains  a  thousand  dials  which  indicate 
the  natural  divisions  of  time,  the  shadows  of  a  thousand 
styles  point  to  the  hour.  — 

"Not  only  o'er  the  dial's  face, 

This  silent  phantom  day  by  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace, 

Steals  moments,  months,  and  years  away; 
From  hoary  rock  and  aged  tree, 

From  proud  Palmyra's  mouldering  walls, 
From  Teneriffe,  towering  o'er  the  sea, 

From  every  blade  of  grass  it  falls." 

It  is  almost  the  only  game  which  the  trees  play  at,  this 
tit-for-tat,  now  this  side  in  the  sun,  now  that,  the  drama  of 
the  day.  In  deep  ravines  under  the  eastern  sides  of  cliffs, 
Night  forwardly  plants  her  foot  even  at  noonday,  and  as 
Day  retreats  she  steps  into  his  trenches,  skulking  from  tree 
to  tree,  from  fence  to  fence,  until  at  last  she  sits  in  his  citadel 
and  draws  out  her  forces  into  the  plain.  It  may  be  that 
the  forenoon  is  brighter  than  the  afternoon,  not  only  because 
of  the  greater  transparency  of  its  atmosphere,  but  because 
we  naturally  look  most  into  the  west,  as  forward  into  the 
day,  and  so  in  the  forenoon  see  the  sunny  side  of  things,  but 
in  the  afternoon  the  shadow  of  every  tree. 


238  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

The  afternoon  is  now  far  advanced,  and  a  fresh  and  leisurely 
wind  is  blowing  over  the  river,  making  long  reaches  of  bright 
ripples.  The  river  has  done  its  stint,  and  appears  not  to 
flow,  but  lie  at  its  length  reflecting  the  light,  and  the  haze 
over  the  woods  is  like  the  inaudible  panting,  or  rather  the 
gentle  perspiration  of  resting  nature,  rising  from  a  myriad 
of  pores  into  the  attenuated  atmosphere. 

On  the  thirty-first  day  of  March,  one  hundred  and  forty- 
two  years  before  this,  probably  about  this  time  in  the  after- 
noon, there  were  hurriedly  paddling  down  this  part  of  the 
river,  between  the  pine  woods  which  then  fringed  these  banks, 
two  white  women  and  a  boy,  who  had  left  an  island  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Contoocook  before  daybreak.  They  were 
slightly  clad  for  the  season,  in  the  English  fashion,  and 
handled  their  paddles  unskilfully,  but  with  nervous  energy 
and  determination,  and  at  the  bottom  of  their  canoe  lay  the 
still  bleeding  scalps  of  ten  of  the  aborigines.  They  were 
Hannah  Dustan,  and  her  nurse,  Mary  Neff,  both  of  Haverhill, 
eighteen  miles  from  the  mouth  of  this  river,  and  an  English 
boy,  named  Samuel  Lennardson,  escaping  from  captivity 
among  the  Indians.  On  the  15th  of  March  previous,  Hannah 
Dustan  had  been  compelled  to  rise  from  childbed,  and  half- 
dressed,  with  one  foot  bare,  accompanied  by  her  nurse,  com- 
mence an  uncertain  march,  in  still  inclement  weather,  through 
the  snow  and  the  wilderness.  She  had  seen  her  seven  elder 
children  flee  with  their  father,  but  knew  not  of  their  fate. 
She  had  seen  her  infant's  brains  dashed  out  against  an  apple 
tree,  and  had  left  her  own  and  her  neighbors'  dwellings  in 
ashes.  When  she  reached  the  wigwam  of  her  captor,  situated 
on  an  island  in  the  Merrimack,  more  than  twenty  miles  above 
where  we  now  are,  she  had  been  told  that  she  and  her  nurse 
were  soon  to  be  taken  to  a  distant  Indian  settlement,  and 
there  made  to  run  the  gauntlet  naked.  The  family  of  this 
Indian  consisted  of  two  men,  three  women,  and  seven  chil- 
dren, beside  an  English  boy,  whom  she  found  a  prisoner 
among  them.  Having  determined  to  attempt  her  escape, 
she  instructed  the  boy  to  inquire  of  one  of  the  men,  how  he 
should  despatch  an  enemy  in  the  quickest  manner,  and  take 
his  scalp.  "Strike  'em  there,"  said  he,  placing  his  finger 
on  his  temple,  and  he  also  showed  him  how  to  take  off  the 
scalp.     On  the  morning  of  the  31st  she  arose  before  daybreak, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  239 

and  awoke  her  nurse  and  the  boy,  and  taking  the  Indians' 
tomahawks,  they  killed  them  all  in  their  sleep,  excepting  one 
favorite  boy,  and  one  squaw  who  fled  wounded  with  him  to 
the  woods.  The  English  boy  struck  the  Indian  who  had 
given  him  the  information  on  the  temple,  as  he  had  been 
directed.  They  then  collected  all  the  provision  they  could 
find,  and  took  their  master's  tomahawk  and  gun,  and  scuttling 
all  the  canoes  but  one,  commenced  their  flight  to  Haverhill, 
distant  about  sixty  miles  by  the  river.  But  after  having 
proceeded  a  short  distance,  fearing  that  her  story  would  not 
be  believed  if  she  should  escape  to  tell  it,  they  returned  to 
the  silent  wigwam,  and  taking  off  the  scalps  of  the  dead,  put 
them  into  a  bag  as  proofs  of  what  they  had  done,  and  then 
retracing  their  steps  to  the  shore  in  the  twilight,  recom- 
menced their  voyage. 

Early  this  morning  this  deed  was  performed,  and  now, 
perchance,  these  tired  women  and  this  boy,  their  clothes 
stained  with  blood,  and  their  minds  racked  with  alternate 
resolution  and  fear,  are  making  a  hasty  meal  of  parched  corn 
and  moose  meat,  while  their  canoe  glides  under  these  pine 
roots  whose  stumps  are  still  standing  on  the  bank.  They 
are  thinking  of  the  dead  whom  they  have  left  behind  on  that 
solitary  isle  far  up  the  stream,  and  of  the  relentless  living 
warriors  who  are  in  pursuit.  Every  withered  leaf  which 
the  winter  has  left  seems  to  know  their  story,  and  in  its 
rustling  to  repeat  it  and  betray  them.  An  Indian  lurks 
behind  every  rock  and  pine,  and  their  nerves  cannot  bear 
the  tapping  of  a  woodpecker.  Or  they  forget  their  own 
dangers  and  their  deeds  in  conjecturing  the  fate  of  their 
kindred,  and  whether,  if  they  escape  the  Indians,  they  shall 
find  the  former  still  alive.  They  do  not  stop  to  cook  their 
meals  upon  the  bank,  nor  land,  except  to  carry  their  canoe 
about  the  falls.  The  stolen  birch  forgets  its  master  and  does 
them  good  service,  and  the  swollen  current  bears  them  swiftly 
along  with  little  need  of  the  paddle,  except  to  steer  and  keep 
them  warm  by  exercise.  For  ice  is  floating  in  the  river ;  the 
spring  is  opening;  the  muskrat  and  the  beaver  are  driven 
out  of  their  holes  by  the  flood ;  deer  gaze  at  them  from  the 
bank ;  a  few  faint-singing  forest  birds,  perchance,  fly  across 
the  river  to  the  northernmost  shore ;  the  fish-hawk  sails  and 
screams  overhead,  and  geese  fly  over  with  a  startling  clangor ; 
but  they  do  not  observe  these  things,  or  they  speedily  forget 


240  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

them.  They  do  not  smile  or  chat  all  day.  Sometimes  they 
pass  an  Indian  grave  surrounded  by  its  paling  on  the  bank, 
or  the  frame  of  a  wigwam,  with  a  few  coals  left  behind,  or 
the  withered  stalks  still  rustling  in  the  Indian's  solitary  corn- 
field on  the  interval.  The  birch  stripped  of  its  bark,  or  the 
charred  stump  where  a  tree  has  been  burned  down  to  be 
made  into  a  canoe,  these  are  the  only  traces  of  man,  —  a 
fabulous  wild  man  to  us.  On  either  side,  the  primeval  forest 
stretches  away  uninterrupted  to  Canada  or  to  the  "South 
Sea";  to  the  white  man  a  drear  and  howling  wilderness, 
but  to  the  Indian  a  home,  adapted  to  his  nature,  and  cheerful 
as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

While  we  loiter  here  this  autumn  evening,  looking  for  a 
spot  retired  enough,  where  we  shall  quietly  rest  to-night, 
they  thus,  in  that  chilly  March  evening,  one  hundred  and 
forty-two  years  before  us,  with  wind  and  current  favoring, 
have  already  glided  out  of  sight,  not  to  camp,  as  we  shall, 
at  night,  but  while  two  sleep  one  will  manage  the  canoe,  and 
the  swift  stream  bear  them  onward  to  the  settlements,  it 
may  be,  even  to  old  John  LovewelFs  house  on  Salmon  Brook 
to-night. 

According  to  the  historian,  they  escaped  as  by  a  miracle 
all  roving  bands  of  Indians,  and  reached  their  homes  in  safety, 
with  their  trophies,  for  which  the  General  Court  paid  them 
fifty  pounds.  The  family  of  Hannah  Dustan  all  assembled 
alive  once  more,  except  the  infant  whose  brains  were  dashed 
out  against  the  apple  tree,  and  there  have  been  many  who 
in  later  times  have  lived  to  say  that  they  had  eaten  of  the 
fruit  of  that  apple  tree. 

This  seems  a  long  while  ago,  and  yet  it  happened  since 
Milton  wrote  his  Paradise  Lost.  But  its  antiquity  is  not  the 
less  great  for  that,  for  we  do  not  regulate  our  historical  time 
by  the  English  standard,  nor  did  the  English  by  the  Roman, 
nor  the  Roman  by  the  Greek.  "We  must  look  a  long  way 
back,"  says  Raleigh,  "to  find  the  Romans  giving  laws  to 
nations,  and  their  consuls  bringing  kings  and  princes  bound 
in  chains  to  Rome  in  triumph ;  to  see  men  go  to  Greece  for 
wisdom,  or  Ophir  for  gold ;  when  now  nothing  remains  but 
a  poor  paper  remembrance  of  their  former  condition."  — 
And  yet,  in  one  sense,  not  so  far  back  as  to  find  the  Pena- 
cooks  and  Pawtuckets  using  bows  and  arrows  and  hatchets 
of  stone,  on  the  banks  of  the  Merrimack.     From  this  Sep- 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  241 

tember  afternoon,  and  from  between  these  now  cultivated 
shores,  those  times  seem  more  remote  than  the  dark  ages. 
On  beholding  an  old  picture  of  Concord,  as  it  appeared 
but  seventy-five  years  ago,  with  a  fair,  open  prospect  and  a 
light  on  trees  and  river,  as  if  it  were  broad  noon,  I  find  that 
I  had  not  thought  the  sun  shone  in  those  days,  or  that  men 
lived  in  broad  daylight  then.  Still  less  do  we  imagine  the 
sun  shining  on  hill  and  valley  during  Philip's  war,  on  the 
warpath  of  Church  or  Philip,  or  later  of  Lovewell  or  Paugus, 
with  serene  summer  weather,  but  they  must  have  lived  and 
fought  in  a  dim  twilight  or  night. 

The  age  of  the  world  is  great  enough  for  our  imaginations, 
even  according  to  the  Mosaic  account,  without  borrowing 
any  years  from  the  geologist.  From  Adam  and  Eve  at  one 
leap  sheer  down  to  the  deluge,  and  then  through  the  ancient 
monarchies,  through  Babylon  and  Thebes,  Brahma  and 
Abraham,  to  Greece  and  the  Argonauts;  whence  we  might 
start  again  with  Orpheus  and  the  Trojan  war,  the  Pyramids 
and  the  Olympic  games,  and  Homer  and  Athens,  for  our 
stages ;  and  after  a  breathing  space  at  the  building  of  Rome, 
continue  our  journey  down  through  Odin  and  Christ  to  — 
America.  It  is  a  wearisome  while.  —  And  yet  the  fives  of 
but  sixty  old  women,  such  as  live  under  the  hill,  say  of  a 
century  each,  strung  together,  are  sufficient  to  reach  over  the 
whole  ground.  Taking  hold  of  hands  they  would  span  the 
interval  from  Eve  to  my  own  mother.  A  respectable  tea- 
party  merely,  —  whose  gossip  would  be  Universal  History. 
The  fourth  old  woman  from  myself  suckled  Columbus,  — 
the  ninth  was  nurse  to  the  Norman  Conqueror,  —  the  nine- 
teenth was  the  Virgin  Mary,  —  the  twenty-fourth  the  Cu- 
msean  Sibyl,  — the  thirtieth  was  at  the  Trojan  war  and  Helen 
her  name,  —  the  thirty-eighth  was  Queen  Semiramis,  —  the 
sixtieth  was  Eve,  the  mother  of  mankind.    So  much  for  the 

—  "old  woman  that  lives  under  the  hill, 
And  if  she's  not  gone  she  lives  there  still." 

It  will  not  take  a  very  great  grand-daughter  of  hers  to  be  in 
at  the  death  of  Time. 

We  can  never  safely  exceed  the  actual  facts  in  our  narra- 
tives. Of  pure  invention,  such  as  some  suppose,  there  is 
no  instance.  To  write  a  true  work  of  fiction  even,  is  only  to 
take  leisure  and  liberty  to  describe  some  things  more  exactly 


242  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

as  they  are.  A  true  account  of  the  actual  is  the  rarest  poetry, 
for  common  sense  always  takes  a  hasty  and  superficial  view. 
Though  I  am  not  much  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Goethe, 
I  should  say  that  it  was  one  of  his  chief  excellencies  as  a 
writer,  that  he  is  satisfied  with  giving  an  exact  description  of 
things  as  they  appear  to  him,  and  their  effect  upon  him.  Most 
travellers  have  not  self-respect  enough  to  do  this  simply, 
and  make  objects  and  events  stand  around  them  as  the  centre, 
but  still  imagine  more  favorable  positions  and  relations  than 
the  actual  ones,  and  so  we  get  no  valuable  report  from  them 
at  all.  In  his  Italian  Travels  Goethe  jogs  along  at  a  snail's 
pace,  but  always  mindful  that  the  earth  is  beneath  and  the 
heavens  are  above  him.  His  Italy  is  not  merely  the  father- 
land of  lazzaroni  and  virtuosi,  and  scene  of  splendid  ruins, 
but  a  solid  turf-clad  soil,  daily  shined  on  by  the  sun,  and 
nightly  by  the  moon.  Even  the  few  showers  are  faithfully 
recorded.  He  speaks  as  an  unconcerned  spectator,  whose 
object  is  faithfully  to  describe  what  he  sees,  and  that,  for  the 
most  part,  in  the  order  in  which  he  sees  it.  Even  his  re- 
flections do  not  interfere  with  his  descriptions.  In  one  place 
he  speaks  of  himself  as  giving  so  glowing  and  truthful  a 
description  of  an  old  tower  to  the  peasants  who  had  gathered 
around  him,  that  they  who  had  been  born  and  brought  up 
in  the  neighborhood  must  needs  look  over  their  shoulders, 
"that,"  to  use  his  own  words,  "they  might  behold  with 
their  eyes,  what  I  had  praised  to  their  ears"  —  "and  I  added 
nothing,  not  even  the  ivy  which  for  centuries  had  decorated 
the  walls."  It  would  thus  be  possible  for  inferior  minds  to 
produce  invaluable  books,  if  this  very  moderation  were  not 
the  evidence  of  superiority;  for  the  wise  are  not  so  much 
wiser  than  others  as  respecters  of  their  own  wisdom.  Some, 
poor  in  spirit,  record  plaintively  only  what  has  happened  to 
them ;  but  others  how  they  have  happened  to  the  universe, 
and  the  judgment  which  they  have  awarded  to  circumstances. 
Above  all,  he  possessed  a  hearty  good-will  to  all  men,  and 
never  wrote  a  cross  or  even  careless  word.  On  one  occasion 
the  post-boy  snivelling  "Signor  perdonate,  qu£sta  e  la  mia 
patria,"  he  confesses  that  "to  me  poor  northerner  came  some- 
thing tear-like  into  the  eyes." 

Goethe's  whole  education  and  life  were  those  of  the  artist. 
He  lacks  the  unconsciousness  of  the  poet.  In  his  autobiog- 
raphy he  describes  accurately  the  life  of  the  author  of  Wilhelm 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  243 

Meister.  For  as  there  is  in  that  book,  mingled  with  a  rare 
and  serene  wisdom,  a  certain  pettiness  or  exaggeration  of 
trifles,  wisdom  applied  to  produce  a  constrained  and  partial 
and  merely  well-bred  man,  —  a  magnifying  of  the  theatre 
till  life  itself  is  turned  into  a  stage,  for  which  it  is  our  duty 
to  study  our  parts  well,  and  conduct  with  propriety  and 
precision,  —  so  in  the  autobiography,  the  fault  of  his  educa- 
tion is,  so  to  speak,  its  artistic  completeness.  Nature  is 
hindered,  though  she  prevails  at  last  in  making  an  unusually 
catholic  impression  on  the  boy.  It  is  the  life  of  a  city  boy, 
whose  toys  are  pictures  and  works  of  art,  whose  wonders 
are  the  theatre  and  kingly  processions  and  crownings.  As 
the  youth  studied  minutely  the  order  and  the  degrees  in  the 
imperial  procession,  and  suffered  none  of  its  effect  to  be  lost 
on  him ;  so  the  man  aimed  to  secure  a  rank  in  society  which 
would  satisfy  his  notion  of  fitness  and  respectability.  He  was 
defrauded  of  much  which  the  savage  boy  enjoys.  Indeed  he 
himself  has  occasion  to  say  in  this  very  autobiography,  when 
at  last  he  escapes  into  the  woods  without  the  gates,  —  "Thus 
much  is  certain,  that  only  the  undefinable,  wide-expanding 
feelings  of  youth  and  of  uncultivated  nations  are  adapted 
to  the  sublime,  which  whenever  it  may  be  excited  in  us 
through  external  objects,  since  it  is  either  formless,  or  else 
moulded  into  forms  which  are  incomprehensible,  must  sur- 
round us  with  a  grandeur  which  we  find  above  our  reach." 
He  further  says  of  himself,  —  "I  had  lived  among  painters 
from  my  childhood,  and  had  accustomed  myself  to  look  at 
objects  as  they  did,  with  reference  to  art."  And  this  was  his 
practice  to  the  last.  He  was  even  too  well-bred  to  be  thor- 
oughly bred.  He  says  that  he  had  had  no  intercourse  with 
the  lowest  class  of  his  towns-boys.  The  child  should  have 
the  advantage  of  ignorance  as  well  as  of  knowledge,  and  is 
fortunate  if  he  gets  his  share  of  neglect  and  exposure.  — 

"The  laws  of  Nature  break  the  rules  of  Art." 

The  Man  of  Genius  may  at  the  same  time  be,  indeed  is 
commonly,  an  Artist,  but  the  two  are  not  to  be  confounded. 
The  Man  of  Genius,  referred  to  mankind,  is  an  originator, 
an  inspired  or  demonic  man,  who  produces  a  perfect  work 
in  obedience  to  laws  yet  unexplored.  The  Artist  is  he  who 
detects  and  applies  the  law  from  observation  of  the  works  of 
Genius,  whether  of  man  or  nature.    The  Artisan  is  he  who 


244  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

merely  applies  the  rules  which  others  have  detected.  There 
has  been  no  man  of  pure  Genius;  as  there  has  been  none 
wholly  destitute  of  Genius. 

Poetry  is  the  mysticism  of  mankind. 

The  expressions  of  the  poet  cannot  be  analyzed ;  his  sen- 
tence is  one  word,  whose  syllables  are  words.  There  are  in- 
deed no  words  quite  worthy  to  be  set  to  his  music.  But 
what  matter  if  we  do  not  hear  the  words  always,  if  we  hear 
the  music? 

Much  verse  fails  of  being  poetry  because  it  was  not  written 
exactly  at  the  right  crisis,  though  it  may  have  been  incon- 
ceivably near  to  it.  _  It  is  only  by  a  miracle  that  poetry  is 
written  at  all.  It  is  not  recoverable  thought,  but  a  hue 
caught  from  a  vaster  receding  thought. 

A  poem  is  one  undivided  unimpeded  expression  fallen  ripe 
into  literature,  and  it  is  undividedly  and  unimpededly  re- 
ceived by  those  for  whom  it  was  matured. 

If  you  can  speak  what  you  will  never  hear,  —  if  you  can 
write  what  you  will  never  read,  you  have  done  rare  things. 

The  work  we  choose  should  be  our  own, 
God  lets  alone. 

The  unconsciousness  of  man  is  the  consciousness  of  God. 

Deep  are  the  foundations  of  sincerity.  Even  stone  walls 
have  their  foundation  below  the  frost. 

What  is  produced  by  a  free  stroke  charms  us,  like  the  forms 
of  lichens  and  leaves.  There  is  a  certain  perfection  in  ac- 
cident which  we  never  consciously  attain.  Draw  a  blunt 
quill  filled  with  ink  over  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  fold  the  paper 
before  the  ink  is  dry,  transversely  to  this  line,  and  a  delicately 
shaded  and  regular  figure  will  be  produced,  in  some  respects 
more  pleasing  than  an  elaborate  drawing. 

The  talent  of  composition  is  very  dangerous,  —  the  strik- 
ing out  the  heart  of  life  at  a  blow,  as  the  Indian  takes  off  a 
scalp.  I  feel  as  if  my  life  had  grown  more  outward  when  I 
£an  express  it. 

On  his  journey  from  Brenner  to  Verona,  Goethe  writes, 
'"The  Tees  flows  now  more  gently,  and  makes  in  many  places 
broad  sands.  On  the  land,  near  to  the  water,  upon  the  hill- 
sides, everything  is  so  closely  planted  one  to  another,  that 
you  think  they  must  choke  one  another,  —  vineyards,  maize, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  245 

mulberry  trees,  apples,  pears,  quinces,  and  nuts.  The  dwarf 
elder  throws  itself  vigorously  over  the  walls.  Ivy  grows 
with  strong  stems  up  the  rocks,  and  spreads  itself  wide  over 
them,  the  lizard  glides  through  the  intervals,  and  everything 
that  wanders  to  and  fro  reminds  one  of  the  loveliest  pictures 
of  art.  The  women's  tufts  of  hair  bound  up,  the  men's 
bare  breasts  and  light  jackets,  the  excellent  oxen  which  they 
drive  home  from  market,  the  little  asses  with  their  loads, 
—  everything  forms  a  living,  animated  Heinrich  Roos. 
And  now  that  it  is  evening,  in  the  mild  air  a  few  clouds  rest 
upon  the  mountains,  in  the  heavens  more  stand  still  than 
move,  and  immediately  after  sunset  the  chirping  of  crickets 
begins  to  grow  more  loud ;  then  one  feels  for  once  at  home 
in  the  world,  and  not  as  concealed  or  in  exile.  I  am  con- 
tented as  though  I  had  been  born  and  brought  up  here,  and 
were  now  returning  from  a  Greenland  or  whaling  voyage. 
Even  the  dust  of  my  Fatherland,  which  is  often  whirled  about 
the  wagon,  and  which  for  so  long  a  time  I  had  not  seen,  is 
greeted.  The  clock-and-bell  jingling  of  the  crickets  is  alto- 
gether lovely,  penetrating,  and  agreeable.  It  sounds  bravely 
when  roguish  boys  whistle  in  emulation  of  a  field  of  such 
songstresses.  One  fancies  that  they  really  enhance  one 
another.    Also  the  evening  is  perfectly  mild  as  the  day." 

"If  one  who  dwelt  in  the  south  and  came  hither  from  the 
south  should  hear  of  my  rapture  hereupon,  he  would  deem 
me  very  childish.  Alas!  what  I  here  express  I  have  long 
known  while  I  suffered  under  an  unpropitious  heaven,  and 
now  may  I  joyful  feel  this  joy  as  an  exception,  which  we 
should  enjoy  everforth  as  an  eternal  necessity  of  our  nature." 

Thus  we  "sayled  by  thought  and  pleasaunce,"  as  Chaucer 
says,  and  all  things  seemed  with  us  to  flow ;  the  shore  itself, 
and  the  distant  cliffs,  were  dissolved  by  the  undiluted  air. 
The  hardest  material  seemed  to  obey  the  same  law  with  the 
most  fluid,  and  so  indeed  in  the  long  run  it  does.  Trees 
were  but  rivers  of  sap  and  woody  fibre,  flowing  from  the 
atmosphere,  and  emptying  into  the  earth  by  their  trunks, 
as  their  roots  flowed  upward  to  the  surface.  And  in  the 
heavens  there  were  rivers  of  stars,  and  milky  ways,  already 
beginning  to  gleam  and  ripple  over  our  heads.  There  were 
rivers  of  rock  on  the  surface  of  the  earth,  and  rivers  of  ore 
in  its  bowels,  and  our  thoughts  flowed  and  circulated,  and 


246  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

this  portion  of  time  was  but  the  current  hour.  Let  us  wander 
where  we  will,  the  universe  is  built  round  about  us,  and  we 
are  central  still.  If  we  look  into  the  heavens  they  are  con- 
cave, and  if  we  were  to  look  into  a  gulf  as  bottomless,  it 
would  be  concave  also.  The  sky  is  curved  downward  to 
the  earth  in  the  horizon,  because  we  stand  on  the  plain.  I 
draw  down  its  skirts.  The  stars  so  low  there  seem  loath  to 
depart,  but  by  a  circuitous  path  to  be  remembering  me,  and 
returning  on  their  steps. 

We  had  already  passed  by  broad  daylight  the  scene  of 
our  encampment  at  Coos  Falls,  and  at  length  we  pitched  our 
camp  on  the  west  bank,  in  the  northern  part  of  Merrimack, 
nearly  opposite  to  the  large  island  on  which  we  had  spent 
the  noon  in  our  way  up  the  river. 

There  we  went  to  bed  that  summer  evening,  on  a  sloping 
shelf  in  the  bank,  a  couple  of  rods  from  our  boat,  which  was 
drawn  up  on  the  sand,  and  just  behind  a  thin  fringe  of  oaks 
which  bordered  the  river;  without  having  disturbed  any 
inhabitants  but  the  spiders  in  the  grass,  which  came  out  by 
the  light  of  our  lamp  and  crawled  over  our  buffaloes.  When 
we  looked  out  from  under  the  tent,  the  trees  were  seen  dimly 
through  the  mist,  and  a  cool  dew  hung  upon  the  grass,  which 
seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  night,  and  with  the  damp  air  we  in- 
haled a  solid  fragrance.  Having  eaten  our  supper  of  hot 
cocoa  and  bread  and  watermelon,  we  soon  grew  weary  of 
conversing  and  writing  in  our  journals,  and  putting  out  the 
lantern  which  hung  from  the  tent  pole,  fell  asleep. 

Unfortunately  many  things  have  been  omitted  which 
should  have  been  recorded  in  our  journal,  for  though  we  made 
it  a  rule  to  set  down  all  our  experiences  therein,  yet  such  a 
resolution  is  very  hard  to  keep,  for  the  important  experience 
rarely  allows  us  to  remember  such  obligations,  and  so  in- 
different things  get  recorded,  while  that  is  frequently  neg- 
lected. It  is  not  easy  to  write  in  a  journal  what  interests 
us  at  any  time,  because  to  write  it  is  not  what  interests  us. 

Whenever  we  awoke  in  the  night,  still  eking  out  our  dreams 
with  half -awakened  thoughts,  it  was  not  till  after  an  interval, 
when  the  wind  breathed  harder  than  usual,  flapping  the  cur- 
tains of  the  tent,  and  causing  its  cords  to  vibrate,  that  we 
remembered  that  we  lay  on  the  bank  of  the  Merrimack,  and 
not  in  our  chamber  at  home.  With  our  heads  so  low  in  the 
grass,  we  heard  the  river  whirling  and  sucking,  and  lapsing 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  247 

downward,  kissing  the  shore  as  it  went,  sometimes  rippling 
louder  than  usual,  and  again  its  mighty  current  making  only 
a  slight  limpid  trickling  sound,  as  if  our  water-pail  had  sprung 
a  leak,  and  the  water  were  flowing  into  the  grass  by  our  side. 
The  wind,  rustling  the  oaks  and  hazels,  impressed  us  like  a 
wakeful  and  inconsiderate  person  up  at  midnight,  moving 
about  and  putting  things  to  rights,  occasionally  stirring  up 
whole  drawers  full  of  leaves  at  a  puff.  There  seemed  to  be 
a  great  haste  and  preparation  throughout  Nature,  as  for  a 
distinguished  visitor;  all  her  aisles  had  to  be  swept  in  the 
night,  by  a  thousand  hand-maidens,  and  a  thousand  pots 
to  be  boiled  for  the  next  day's  feasting ;  —  such  a  whispering 
bustle,  as  if  ten  thousand  fairies  made  their  fingers  fly, 
silently  sewing  at  the  new  carpet  with  which  the  earth  was 
to  be  clothed,  and  the  new  drapery  which  was  to  adorn  the 
trees.  And  then  the  wind  would  lull  and  die  away  and  we 
like  it  fell  asleep  again. 

FRIDAY 

"The  Boteman  stray t 
Held  on  his  course  with  stayed  stedfastnesse, 
Ne  ever  shroncke,  ne  ever  sought  to  bayt 
His  tryed  armes  for  toylesome  wearinesse ; 
But  with  his  oares  did  sweepe  the  watry  wildernesse." 

—  Spencer. 

"Summer's  robe  grows 
Dusky,  and  like  an  oft-dyed  garment  shows." 

—  Donne. 

As  we  lay  awake  long  before  daybreak,  listening  to  the 
rippling  of  the  river  and  the  rustling  of  the  leaves,  in  suspense 
whether  the  wind  blew  up  or  down  the  stream,  was  favorable 
or  unfavorable  to  our  voyage,  we  already  suspected  that 
there  was  a  change  in  the  weather,  from  a  freshness  as  of 
autumn  in  these  sounds.  The  wind  in  the  woods  sounded 
like  an  incessant  waterfall  dashing  and  roaring  amid  rocks, 
and  we  even  felt  encouraged  by  the  unusual  activity  of  the 
elements.  He  who  hears  the  rippling  of  rivers  in  these 
degenerate  days  will  not  utterly  despair.  That  night  was  the 
turning  point  in  the  season.  We  had  gone  to  bed  in  summer, 
and  we  awoke  in  autumn ;    for  summer  passes  into  autumn 


248  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

in  some  unimaginable  point  of  time,  like  the  turning  of  a 
leaf. 

We  found  our  boat  in  the  dawn  just  as  we  had  left  it,  and 
as  if  waiting  for  us,  there  on  the  shore,  in  autumn,  all  cool 
and  dripping  with  dew,  and  our  tracks  still  fresh  in  the  wet 
sand  around  it,  the  fairies  all  gone  or  concealed.  Before  five 
o'clock  we  pushed  it  into  the  fog,  and  leaping  in,  at  one  shove 
were  out  of  sight  of  the  shores,  and  began  to  sweep  down- 
ward with  the  rushing  river,  keeping  a  sharp  look  out  for 
rocks.  We  could  see  only  the  yellow  gurgling  water,  and  a 
solid  bank  of  fog  on  every  side  forming  a  small  yard  around 
us.  We  soon  passed  the  mouth  of  the  Souhegan  and  the 
village  of  Merrimack,  and  as  the  mist  gradually  rolled  away, 
and  we  were  relieved  from  the  trouble  of  watching  for  rocks, 
we  saw  by  the  flitting  clouds,  by  the  first  russet  tinge  on  the 
hills,  by  the  rushing  river,  the  cottages  on  shore,  and  the  shore 
itself,  so  coolly  fresh  and  shining  with  dew,  and  later  in  the 
day,  by  the  hue  of  the  grape  vine,  the  goldfinch  on  the  willow, 
the  flickers  flying  in  flocks,  and  when  we  passed  near  enough 
to  the  shore,  as  we  fancied,  by  the  faces  pf  men,  that  the  Fall 
had  commenced.  The  cottages  looked  more  snug  and  com- 
fortable, and  their  inhabitants  were  seen  only  for  a  moment, 
and  then  went  quietly  in  and  shut  the  door,  retreating  inward 
to  the  haunts  of  summer. 

"And  now  the  cold  autumnal  dews  are  seen 
To  cobweb  ev'ry  green ; 
And  by  the  low-shorn  rowens  doth  appear 
The  fast  declining  year." 

We  heard  the  sigh  of  the  first  autumnal  wind,  and  even 
the  water  had  acquired  a  grayer  hue.  The  sumach,  grape, 
and  maple  were  already  changed,  and  the  milkweed  had 
turned  to  a  deep  rich  yellow.  In  all  woods  the  leaves  were 
fast  ripening  for  their  fall;  for  their  full  veins  and  lively 
gloss  mark  the  ripe  leaf,  and  not  the  sered  one  of  the  poets ; 
and  we  knew  that  the  maples,  stripped  of  their  leaves  among 
the  earliest,  would  soon  stand  like  a  wreath  of  smoke  along 
the  edge  of  the  meadow.  Already  the  cattle  were  heard  to 
low  wildly  in  the  pastures  and  along  the  highways,  restlessly 
running  to  and  fro,  as  if  in  apprehension  of  the  withering  of 
the  grass  and  of  the  approach  of  winter.  Our  thoughts  too 
began  to  rustle. 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  249 

As  I  pass  along  the  streets  of  our  village  of  Concord  on 
the  day  of  our  annual  Cattle  Show,  when  it  usually  happens 
that  the  leaves  of  the  elms  and  buttonwoods  begin  first  to 
strew  the  ground  under  the  breath  of  the  October  wind,  the 
lively  spirits  in  their  sap  seem  to  mount  as  high  as  any  plow- 
boy's  let  loose  that  day ;  and  they  lead  my  thoughts  away  to 
the  rustling  woods,  where  the  trees  are  preparing  for  their 
winter  campaign.  This  autumnal  festival,  when  men  are 
gathered  in  crowds  in  the  streets  as  regularly  and  by  as  natural 
a  law  as  the  leaves  cluster  and  rustle  by  the  wayside,  is 
naturally  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  fall  of  the  year. 
The  low  of  cattle  in  the  streets  sounds  like  a  hoarse  sym- 
phony or  running  base  to  the  rustling  of  the  leaves.  The 
wind  goes  hurrying  down  the  country,  gleaning  every  loose 
straw  that  is  left  in  the  fields,  while  every  farmer  lad  too 
appears  to  scud  before  it,  —  having  donned  his  best  pea- 
jacket  and  pepper-and-salt  waistcoat,  his  unbent  trousers, 
outstanding  rigging  of  duck,  or  kersymere,  or  corduroy,  and 
his  furry  hat  withal,  —  to  country  fairs  and  cattle  shows,  to 
that  Rome  among  the  villages  where  the  treasures  of  the 
year  are  gathered.  All  the  land  over  they  go  leaping  the 
fences  with  their  tough  idle  palms,  which  have  never  learned 
to  hang  by  their  sides,  amid  the  low  of  calves  and  the  bleat- 
ing of  sheep,  —  Amos,  Abner,  Elnathan,  Elbridge,  — 

"From  steep  pine-bearing  mountains  to  the  plain." 

I  love  these  sons  of  earth,  every  mother's  son  of  them,  with 
their  great  hearty  hearts  rushing  tumultuously  in  herds  from 
spectacle  to  spectacle,  as  if  fearful  lest  there  should  not  be 
time  between  sun  and  sun  to  see  them  all,  and  the  sun  does 
not  wait  more  than  in  haying  time. 

"Wise  nature's  darlings,  they  live  in  the  world 
Perplexing  not  themselves  how  it  is  hurled." 

Running  hither  and  thither  with  appetite  for  the  coarse 
pastimes  of  the  day,  now  with  boisterous  speed  at  the  heels 
of  the  inspired  negro  from  whose  larynx  the  melodies  of  all 
Congo  and  Guinea  coast  have  broke  loose  into  our  streets; 
now  to  see  the  procession  of  a  hundred  yoke  of  oxen,  all  as 
august  and  grave  as  Osiris,  or  the  droves  of  neat  cattle  and 
milch  cows  as  unspotted  as  Isis  or  Io.  Such  as  had  no  love 
for  Nature 


250  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

"at  all, 
Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival." 

They  may  bring  their  fattest  cattle  and  richest  fruits  to  the 
fair,  but  they  are  all  eclipsed  by  the  show  of  men.  These 
are  stirring  autumn  days,  when  men  sweep  by  in  crowds, 
amid  the  rustle  [of  leaves,  like  migrating  finches ;  this  is  the 
true  harvest  of  the  year,  when  the  air  is  but  the  breath  of 
men,  and  the  rustling  of  leaves  is  as  the  trampling  of  the 
crowd.  We  read  now-a-days  of  the  ancient  festivals,  games, 
and  processions  of  the  Greeks  and  Etruscans,  with  a  little 
incredulity,  or  at  least  with  little  sympathy ;  but  how  natural 
and  irrepressible  in  every  people  is  some  hearty  and  palpable 
greeting  of  Nature.  The  Corybantes,  the  Bacchantes,  the 
rude  primitive  tragedians  with  their  procession  and  goat- 
song,  and  the  whole  paraphernalia  of  the  Panathensea,  which 
appear  so  antiquated  and  peculiar,  have  their  parallel  now. 
The  husbandman  is  always  a  better  Greek  than  the  scholar 
is  prepared  to  appreciate,  and  the  old  custom  still  survives, 
while  antiquarians  and  scholars  grow  gray  in  commemorating 
it.  The  farmers  crowd  to  the  fair  to-day  in  obedience  to 
the  same  ancient  law  which  Solon  or  Lycurgus  did  not  enact, 
as  naturally  as  bees  swarm  and  follow  their  queen. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  see  the  country's  people,  how  they 
pour  into  the  town,  the  sober  farmer  folk,  now  all  agog, 
their  very  shirt  and  coat  collars  pointing  forward,  —  collars 
so  broad  as  if  they  had  put  their  shirts  on  wrong  end  upward, 
for  the  fashions  always  tend  to  superfluity,  —  and  with  an 
unusual  springiness  in  their  gait,  jabbering  earnestly  to  one 
another.  The  more  supple  vagabond,  too,  is  sure  to  appear 
on  the  least  rumor  of  such  a  gathering,  and  the  next  day  to 
disappear,  and  go  into  his  hole  like  the  seventeen-year  locust, 
in  an  ever  shabby  coat,  though  finer  than  the  farmer's  best, 
yet  never  dressed ;  come  to  see  the  sport,  and  have  a  hand 
in  what  is  going,  —  to  know  "what's  the  row,"  if  there  is 
any;  to  be  where  some  men  are  drunk,  some  horses  race, 
some  cockerels  fight ;  anxious  to  be  shaking  props  under  a 
table,  and  above  all  to  see  the  "striped  pig."  He  especially 
is  the  creature  of  the  occasion.  He  empties  both  his  pockets 
and  his  character  into  the  stream,  and  swims  in  such  a  day. 
He  dearly  loves  the  social  slush.  There  is  no  reserve  of 
soberness  in  him. 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  251 

I  love  to  see  the  herd  of  men  feeding  heartily  on  coarse 
and  succulent  pleasures,  as  cattle  on  the  husks  and  stalks  of 
vegetables.  Though  there  are  many  crooked  and  crabbed 
specimens  of  humanity  among  them,  run  all  to  thorn  and  rind, 
and  crowded  out  of  shape  by  adverse  circumstances,  like  the 
third  chestnut  in  the  burr,  so  that  you  wonder  to  see  some 
heads  wear  a  whole  hat,  yet  fear  not  that  the  race  will  fail 
or  waiver  in  them ;  like  the  crabs  which  grow  in  hedges,  they 
furnish  the  stocks  of  sweet  and  thrifty  fruits  still.  Thus  is 
nature  recruited  from  age  to  age,  while  the  fair  and  palatable 
varieties  die  out  and  have  their  period.  This  is  that  mankind. 
How  cheap  must  be  the  material  of  which  so  many  are  made. 

The  wind  blew  steadily  down  the  stream,  so  that  we  kept 
our  sails  set,  and  lost  not  a  moment  of  the  forenoon  by  de- 
lays, but  from  early  morning  until  noon,  were  continually 
dropping  downward.  With  our  hands  on  the  steering  paddle, 
which  was  thrust  deep  into  the  river,  or  bending  to  the  oar, 
which  indeed  we  rarely  relinquished,  we  felt  each  palpitation 
in  the  veins  of  our  steed,  and  each  impulse  of  the  wings  which 
drew  us  above.  The  current  of  our  thoughts  made  as  sudden 
bends  as  the  river,  which  was  continually  opening  new  pros- 
pects to  the  east  or  south,  but  we  are  aware  that  rivers  flow 
most  rapidly  and  shallowest  at  these  points.  The  steadfast 
shores  never  once  turned  aside  for  us,  but  still  trended  as  they 
were  made ;  why  then  should  we  always  turn  aside  for  them  ? 

A  man  cannot  wheedle  nor  overawe  his  Genius.  It  re- 
quires to  be  conciliated  by  nobler  conduct  than  the  world 
demands  or  can  appreciate.  These  winged  thoughts  are  like 
birds,  and  will  not  be  handled ;  even  hens  will  not  let  you 
touch  them  like  quadrupeds.  Nothing  was  ever  so  un- 
familiar and  startling  to  a  man  as  his  own  thoughts. 

To  the  rarest  genius  it  is  the  most  expensive  to  succumb 
and  conform  to  the  ways  of  the  world.  Genius  is  the  worst 
of  lumber,  if  the  poet  would  float  upon  the  breeze  of  popu- 
larity. The  bird  of  paradise  is  obliged  constantly  to  fly 
against  the  wind,  lest  its  gay  trappings,  pressing  close  to  its 
body,  may  impede  its  free  movements. 

He  is  the  best  sailor  who  can  steer  within  the  fewest  points 
of  the  wind,  and  exact  a  motive  power  out  of  the  greatest 
obstacles.  Most  begin  to  veer  and  tack  as  soon  as  the  wind 
changes  from  aft,  and  as  within  the  tropics  it  does  not  blow 


252  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

from  all  points  of  the  compass,  there  are  some  harbors  which 
they  can  never  reach. 

The  poet  is  no  tender  slip  of  fairy  stock,  who  requires 
peculiar  institutions  and  edicts  for  his  defence,  but  the 
toughest  son  of  earth  and  of  Heaven,  and  by  his  greater 
strength  and  endurance  his  fainting  companions  will  recog- 
nize the  God  in  him.  It  is  the  worshippers  of  beauty,  after 
all,  who  have  done  the  real  pioneer  work  of  the  world. 

The  poet  will  prevail  to  be  popular  in  spite  of  his  faults, 
and  in  spite  of  his  beauties  too.  He  will  hit  the  nail  on  the 
head,  and  we  shall  not  know  the  shape  of  his  hammer.  He 
makes*  us  free  of  his  hearth  and  heart,  which  is  greater  than 
to  offer  one  the  freedom  of  a  city. 

Great  men,  unknown  to  their  generation,  have  their 
fame  among  the  great  who  have  preceded  them,  and  all  true 
worldly  fame  subsides  from  their  high  estimate  beyond  the 
stars. 

Orpheus  does  not  hear  the  strains  which  issue  from  his 
lyre,  but  only  those  which  are  breathed  into  it;  for  the 
original  strain  precedes  the  sound,  by  as  much  as  the  echo 
follows  after ;  the  rest  is  the  perquisite  of  the  rocks  and  trees 
and  beasts. 

When  I  stand  in  a  library  where  is  all  the  recorded  wit  of 
the  world,  but  none  of  the  recording,  a  mere  accumulated, 
and  not  truly  cumulative  treasure,  where  immortal  works 
stand  side  by  side  with  anthologies  which  did  not  survive 
their  month,  and  cobweb  and  mildew  have  already  spread  from 
these  to  the  binding  of  those ;  and  happily  I  am  reminded  of 
what  poetry  is,  I  perceive  that  Shakspeare  and  Milton  did 
not  foresee  into  what  company  they  were  to  fall.  Alas! 
that  so  soon  the  work  of  a  true  poet  should  be  swept  into  such 
a  dust-hole ! 

The  poet  will  write  for  his  peers  alone.  He  will  remember 
only  that  he  saw  truth  and  beauty  from  his  position,  and 
expect  the  time  when  a  vision  as  broad  shall  overlook  the 
same  field  as  freely. 

We  are  often  prompted  to  speak  our  thoughts  to  our 
neighbors,  or  the  single  travellers  whom  we  meet  on  the 
road,  but  poetry  is  a  communication  from  our  home  and 
solitude  addressed  to  all  Intelligence.  It  never  whispers  in  a 
private  ear.  Knowing  this,  we  may  understand  those  sonnets 
said  to  be  addressed  to  particular  persons,  or  "to  a  Mistress' 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  253 

Eyebrow."  Let  none  feel  flattered  by  them.  For  poetry 
write  love,  and  it  will  be  equally  true. 

No  doubt  it  is  an  important  difference  between  men  of 
genius  or  poets,  and  men  not  of  genius,  that  the  latter  are 
unable  to  grasp  and  confront  the  thought  which  visits  them. 
But  it  is  because  it  is  too  faint  for  expression,  or  even  con- 
scious impression.  What  merely  quickens  or  retards  the 
blood  in  their  veins  and  fills  their  afternoons  with  pleasure 
they  know  not  whence,  conveys  a  distinct  assurance  to  the 
finer  organization  of  the  poet. 

We  talk  of  genius  as  if  it  were  a  mere  knack,  and  the  poet 
could  only  express  what  other  men  conceived.  But  in  com- 
parison with  his  task  the  poet  is  the  least  talented  of  any; 
the  writer  of  prose  has  more  skill.  See  what  talent  the 
smith  has.  His  material  is  pliant  in  his  hands.  When  the 
poet  is  most  inspired,  is  stimulated  by  an  aura  which  never 
even  colors  the  afternoons  of  common  men,  then  his  talent 
is  all  gone,  and  he  is  no  longer  a  poet.  The  gods  do  not 
grant  him  any  skill  more  than  another.  They  never  put 
their  gifts  into  his  hands,  but  they  encompass  and  sustain 
him  with  their  breath. 

To  say  that  God  has  given  a  man  many  and  great  talents, 
frequently  means,  that  he  has  brought  his  heavens  down 
within  reach  of  his  hands. 

When  the  poetic  frenzy  seizes  us,  we  run  and  scratch  with 
our  pen,  intent  only  on  worms,  calling  our  mates  around  us, 
like  the  cock,  and  delighting  in  the  dust  we  make,  but  do  not 
detect  where  the  jewel  lies,  which,  perhaps,  we  have  in  the 
meantime  cast  to  a  distance,  or  quite  covered  up  again. 

The  poet's  body  even  is  not  fed  simply  like  other  men's, 
but  he  sometimes  tastes  the  genuine  nectar  and  ambrosia 
of  the  gods,  and  lives  a  divine  life.  By  the  healthful  and 
invigorating  thrills  of  inspiration  his  life  is  preserved  to  a 
serene  old  age. 

Some  poems  are  for  holidays  only.  They  are  polished  and 
sweet,  but  it  is  the  sweetness  of  sugar,  and  not  such  as  toil 
gives  to  sour  bread.  The  breath  with  which  the  poet  utters 
his  verse  must  be  that  by  which  he  lives. 

Great  prose,  of  equal  elevation,  commands  our  respect 
more  than  great  verse,  since  it  implies  a  more  permanent 
and  level  height,  a  life  more  pervaded  with  the  grandeur  of 
the  thought.     The  poet  often  only  makes  an  irruption,  like  a 


254  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Parthian,  and  is  off  again,  shooting  while  he  retreats;  but 
the  prose  writer  has  conquered  like  a  Roman,  and  settled 
colonies. 

The  true  poem  is  not  that  which  the  public  read.  There 
is  always  a  poem  not  printed  on  paper,  coincident  with  the 
production  of  this,  stereotyped  in  the  poet's  life.  It  is  what 
he  has  become  through  his  work.  Not  how  is  the  idea  expressed 
in  stone,  or  on  canvas  or  paper,  is  the  question,  but  how  far 
it  has  obtained  form  and  expression  in  the  life  of  the  artist. 
His  true  work  will  not  stand  in  any  prince's  gallery. 

My  life  has  been  the  poem  I  would  have  writ, 
But  I  could  not  both  live  and  utter  it. 


THE   POET'S  DELAY 

In  vain  I  see  the  morning  rise, 
In  vain  observe  the  western  blaze, 

Who  idly  look  to  other  skies, 
Expecting  life  by  other  ways. 

Amidst  such  boundless  wealth  without, 

I  only  still  am  poor  within, 
The  birds  have  sung  their  summer  out, 

But  still  my  spring  does  not  begin. 

Shall  I  then  wait  the  autumn  wind, 

Compelled  to  seek  a  milder  day, 
And  leave  no  curious  nest  behind, 

No  woods  still  echoing  to  my  lay  ? 

This  raw  and  gusty  day,  and  the  creaking  of  the  oaks  and 
pines  on  shore,  reminded  us  of  more  northern  climes  than 
Greece,  and  more  wintry  seas  than  the  iEgean. 

The  genuine  remains  of  Ossian,  or  those  ancient  poems 
which  bear  his  name,  though  of  less  fame  and  extent,  are, 
in  many  respects,  of  the  same  stamp  with  the  Iliad  itself. 
He  asserts  the  dignity  of  the  bard  no  less  than  Homer,  and 
in  his  era  we  hear  of  no  other  priest  than  he.  It  will  not 
avail  to  call  him  a  heathen,  because  he  personifies  the  sun 
and  addresses  it;  and  what  if  his  heroes  did  " worship  the 
ghosts  of  their  fathers,"  their  thin,  airy,  and  unsubstantial 
forms?  we  but  worship  the  ghosts  of  our  fathers  in  more 
substantial  forms.     We   cannot   but   respect   the   vigorous 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  255 

faith  of  those  heathen,  who  sternly  believed  somewhat,  and 
we  are  inclined  to  say  to  the  critics,  who  are  offended  by  their 
superstitious  rites,  —  Don't  interrupt  these  men's  prayers. 
As  if  we  knew  more  about  human  life  and  a  God,  than  the 
heathen  and  ancients!  Does  English  theology  contain  the 
recent  discoveries? 

Ossian  reminds  us  of  the  most  refined  and  rudest  eras, 
of  Homer,  Pindar,  Isaiah,  and  the  American  Indian.  In 
his  poetry,  as  in  Homer's,  only  the  simplest  and  most  endur- 
ing features  of  humanity  are  seen,  such  essential  parts  of  a 
man  as  Stonehenge  exhibits  of  a  temple ;  we  see  the  circles 
of  stone,  and  the  upright  shaft  alone.  The  phenomena  of 
life  acquire  almost  an  unreal  and  gigantic  size  seen  through 
his  mists.  Like  all  older  and  grander  poetry,  it  is  distin- 
guished by  the  few  elements  in  the  lives  of  its  heroes.  They 
stand  on  the  heath,  between  the  stars  and  the  earth,  shrunk 
to  the  bones  and  sinews.  The  earth  is  a  boundless  plain  for 
their  deeds.  They  lead  such  a  simple,  dry,  and  everlasting 
life,  as  hardly  needs  depart  with  the  flesh,  but  is  transmitted 
entire  from  age  to  age.  There  are  but  few  objects  to  distract 
their  sight,  and  their  life  is  as  unincumbered  as  the  course  of 
the  stars  they  gaze  at.  — 

"The  wrathful  kings,  on  cairns  apart, 
Look  forward  from  behind  their  shields, 
And  mark  the  wandering  stars, 
That  brilliant  westward  move." 

It  does  not  cost  much  for  these  heroes  to  live ;  they  do  not 
want  much  furniture.  They  are  such  forms  of  men  only  as 
can  be  seen  afar  through  the  mist,  and  have  no  costume  nor 
dialect,  but  for  language  there  is  the  tongue  itself,  and  for 
costume  there  are  always  the  skins  of  beasts  and  the  bark 
of  trees  to  be  had.  They  live  out  their  years  by  the  vigor 
of  their  constitutions.  They  survive  storms  and  the  spears 
of  their  foes,  and  perform  a  few  heroic  deeds,  and  then, 

"Mounds  will  answer  questions  of  them, 
For  many  future  years." 

Blind  and  infirm,  they  spend  the  remnant  of  their  days  listen- 
ing to  the  lays  of  the  bards,  and  feeling  the  weapons  which 
laid  their  enemies  low,  and  when  at  length  they  die,  by  a 
convulsion  of  nature,  the  bard  allows  us  a  short  and  misty 


256  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

glance  into  futurity,  yet  as  clear,  perchance,  as  their  lives 
had  been.    When  MacRoine  was  slain, 

"His  soul  departed  to  his  warlike  sires, 
To  follow  misty  forms  of  boars, 
,     In  tempestuous  islands  bleak." 

The  hero's  cairn  is  erected,  and  the  bard  sings  a  brief  sig- 
nificant strain,  which  will  suffice  for  epitaph  and  biography. 

"The  weak  will  find  his  bow  in  the  dwelling, 
The  feeble  will  attempt  to  bend  it." 

Compared  with  this  simple,  fibrous  life,  our  civilized  history 
appears  the  chronicle  of  debility,  of  fashion,  and  the  arts  of 
luxury.  But  the  civilized  man  misses  no  real  refinement  in 
the  poetry  of  the  rudest  era.  It  reminds  him  that  civiliza- 
tion does  but  dress  men.  It  makes  shoes,  but  it  does  not 
toughen  the  soles  of  the  feet.  It  makes  cloth  of  finer  texture, 
but  it  does  not  touch  the  skin.  Inside  the  civilized  man 
stands  the  savage  still  in  the  place  of  honor.  We  are  those 
blue-eyed,  yellow-haired  Saxons,  those  slender,  dark-haired 
Normans. 

The  profession  of  the  bard  attracted  more  respect  in  those 
days  from  the  importance  attached  to  fame.  It  was  his 
province  to  record  the  deeds  of  heroes.  When  Ossian  hears 
the  traditions  of  inferior  bards,  he  exclaims,  — 

"I  straightway  seize  the  lmf utile  tales, 
And  send  them  down  in  faithful  verse." 

His  philosophy  of  life  is  expressed  in  the  opening  of  the  third 
Duan  of  Ca-Lodin. 

"Whence  have  sprung  the  things  that  are? 
And  whither  roll  the  passing  years? 
Where  does  Time  conceal  its  two  heads, 
In  dense  impenetrable  gloom, 
Its  surface  marked  with  heroes'  deeds  alone? 
I  view  the  generations  gone ; 
The  past  appears  but  dim  ; 
As  objects  by  the  moon's  faint  beams, 
Reflected  from  a  distant  lake. 
I  see,  indeed,  the  thunderbolts  of  war, 
But  there  the  unmighty  joyless  dwell, 
All  those  who  send  not  down  their  deeds 
To  far,  succeeding  times." 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  257 

The  ignoble  warriors  die  and  are  forgotten ; 

"Strangers  come  to  build  a  tower, 
And  throw  their  ashes  overhand ; 
Some  rusted  swords  appear  in  dust ; 
One,  bending  forward,  says, 
1  The  arms  belonged  to  heroes  gone ; 
We  never  heard  their  praise  in  song.'" 

The  grandeur  of  the  similes  is  another  feature  which 
characterizes  great  poetry.  Ossian  seems  to  speak  a  gigantic 
and  universal  language.  The  images  and  pictures  occupy 
even  much  space  in  the  landscape,  as  if  they  could  be  seen 
only  from  the  sides  of  mountains,  and  plains  with  a  wide 
horizon,  or  across  arms  of  the  sea.  The  machinery  is  so 
massive  that  it  cannot  be  less  than  natural.  Oivana  says  to 
the  spirit  of  her  father,  "Grey-haired  Torkil  of  Torne," 
seen  in  the  skies, 

"Thou  glidest  away  like  receding  ships." 
So  when  the  hosts  of  Fingal  and  Starne  approach  to  battle, 

"With  murmurs  loud,  like  rivers  far, 
The  race  of  Torne  hither  moved." 

And  when  compelled  to  retire, 

"dragging  his  spear  behind, 

Cudulin  sank  in  the  distant  wood, 
Like  a  fire  upblazing  ere  it  dies." 

Nor  did  Fingal  want  a  proper  audience  when  he  spoke ; 

"A  thousand  orators  inclined 
To  hear  the  lay  of  Fingal." 

The  threats  too  would  have  deterred  a  man.  Vengeance 
and  terror  were  real.  Trenmore  threatens  the  young  warrior 
whom  he  meets  on  a  foreign  strand, 

"Thy  mother  shall  find  thee  pale  on  the  shore, 
While  lessening  on  the  waves  she  spies 
The  sails  of  him  who  slew  her  son." 

If  Ossian's  heroes  weep,  it  is  from  excess  of  strength,  and  not 
from  weakness,  a  sacrifice  or  libation  of  fertile  natures,  like 


258  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

the  perspiration  of  stone  in  summer's  heat.  We  hardly 
know  that  tears  have  been  shed,  and  it  seems  as  if  weeping 
were  proper  only  for  babes  and  heroes.  Their  joy  and  their 
sorrow  are  made  of  one  stuff,  like  rain  and  snow,  the  rainbow 
and  the  mist.  When  Fillan  was  worsted  in  fight,  and  ashamed 
in  the  presence  of  Fingal, 

"He  strode  away  forthwith, 
And  bent  in  grief  above  a  stream, 
His  cheeks  bedewed  with  tears. 
From  time  to  time  the  thistles  gray 
He  lopped  with  his  inverted  lance." 

Crodar,  blind  and  old,  receives  Ossian,  son  of  Fingal,  who 
comes  to  aid  him  in  war ;  — 

"'My  eyes  have  failed,'  says  he,  'Crodar  is  blind. 
Is  thy  strength  like  that  of  thy  fathers? 
Stretch,  Ossian,  thine  arm  to  the  hoary-haired.'  > 

I  gave  my  arm  to  the  king. 
The  aged  hero  seized  my  hand ; 
He  heaved  a  heavy  sigh ; 
Tears  flowed  incessant  down  his  cheek. 
'Strong  art  thou,  son  of  the  mighty, 
Though  not  so  dreadful  as  Morven's  prince.  *  *  * 
Let  my  feast  be  spread  in  the  hall, 
Let  every  sweet-voiced  minstrel  sing ; 
Great  is  he  who  is  within  my  walls, 
Sons  of  wave-echoing  Croma.'" 

Even  Ossian  himself,  the  hero-bard,  pays  tribute  to  the 
superior  strength  of  his  father  Fingal. 

"How  beauteous,  mighty  man,  was  thy  mind, 
Why  succeeded  Ossian  without  its  strength?" 


While  we  sailed  fleetly  before  the  wind,  with  the  river 
gurgling  under  our  stern,  the  thoughts  of  autumn  coursed 
as  steadily  through  our  minds,  and  we  observed  less  what 
was  passing  on  the  shore,  than  the  dateless  associations  and 
impressions  which  the  season  awakened,  anticipating  in 
some  measure  the  progress  of  the  year.  — 

I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 
And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  259 

I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 
And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore. 

Sitting  with  our  faces  now  up  stream,  we  studied  the  land- 
scape by  degrees,  as  one  unrolls  a  map,  —  rock,  tree,  house, 
hill,  and  meadow,  assuming  new  and  varying  positions  as 
wind  and  water  shifted  the  scene,  and  there  was  variety  enough 
for  our  entertainment  in  the  metamorphoses  of  the  simplest 
objects.  Viewed  from  this  side  the  scenery  appeared  new 
to  us. 

The  most  familiar  sheet  of  water  viewed  from  a  new  hill- 
top, yields  a  novel  and  unexpected  pleasure.  When  we  have 
travelled  a  few  miles,  we  do  not  recognize  the  profiles  even 
of  the  hills  which  overlook  our  native  village,  and  perhaps 
no  man  is  quite  familiar  with  the  horizon  as  seen  from  the 
hill  nearest  to  his  house,  and  can  recall  its  outline  distinctly 
when  in  the  valley.  We  do  not  commonly  know,  beyond  a 
short  distance,  which  way  the  hills  range  which  take  in  our 
houses  and  farms  in  their  sweep.  As  if  our  birth  had  at 
first  sundered  things,  and  we  had  been  thrust  up  through 
into  nature  like  a  wedge,  and  not  till  the  wound  heals  and 
the  scar  disappears,  do  we  begin  to  discover  where  we  are, 
and  that  nature  is  one  and  continuous  everywhere.  It  is 
an  important  epoch  when  a  man  who  has  always  lived  on 
the  east  side  of  a  mountain  and  seen  it  in  the  west,  travels 
round  and  sees  it  in  the  east.  Yet  the  universe  is  a  sphere 
whose  centre  is  wherever  there  is  intelligence.  The  sun  is 
not  so  central  as  a  man.  Upon  an  isolated  hill-top,  in  an 
open  country,  we  seem  to  ourselves  to  be  standing  on  the 
boss  of  an  immense  shield,  the  immediate  landscape  being 
apparently  depressed  below  the  more  remote,  and  rising 
gradually  to  the  horizon,  which  is  the  rim  of  the  shield,  villas, 
steeples,  forests,  mountains,  one  above  another,  till  they  are 
swallowed  up  in  the  heavens.  The  most  distant  mountains 
appear  to  rise  directly  from  the  shore  of  that  lake  in  the 
woods  by  which  we  chance  to  be  standing,  while  from  the 
mountain  top,  not  only  this,  but  a  thousand  nearer  and 
larger  lakes,  are  equally  unobserved. 

Seen  through  this  clear  atmosphere,  the  works  of  the 
farmer,  his  plowing  and  reaping,  had  a  beauty  to  our  eyes 
which  he  never  saw.  How  fortunate  were  we  who  did  not 
own  an  acre  of  these  shores,  who  had  not  renounced  our  title 


260  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

to  the  whole.  One  who  knew  how  to  appropriate  the  true 
value  of  this  world  would  be  the  poorest  man  in  it.  The  poor 
rich  man !  all  he  has  is  what  he  has  bought.  What  I  see  is 
mine.     I  am  a  large  owner  in  the  Merrimack  intervals.  — 

Men  dig  and  dive  but  cannot  my  wealth  spend, 
Who  yet  no  partial  store  appropriate, 

Who  no  armed  ship  into  the  Indies  send, 
To  rob  me  of  my  orient  estate. 

He  is  the  rich  man,  and  enjoys  the  fruits  of  riches,  who  sum- 
mer and  winter  forever  can  find  delight  in  his  own  thoughts. 
Buy  a  farm !  What  have  I  to  pay  for  a  farm  which  a  farmer 
will  take? 

When  I  visit  again  some  haunt  of  my  youth,  I  am  glad  to 
find  that  nature  wears  so  well.  The  landscape  is  indeed 
something  real,  and  solid,  and  sincere,  and  I  have  not  put 
my  foot  through  it  yet.  There  is  a  pleasant  tract  on  the 
bank  of  the  Concord,  called  Conantum,  which  I  have  in  my 
mind;  —  the  old  deserted  farm-house,  the  desolate  pasture 
with  its  bleak  cliff,  the  open  wood,  the  river-reach,  the  green 
meadow  in  the  mist,  and  the  moss-grown  wild-apple  orchard, 
—  places  where  one  may  have  many  thoughts  and  not  decide 
anything.  It  is  a  scene  which  I  can  not  only  remember,  as  I 
might  a  vision,  but  when  I  will  can  bodily  revisit,  and  find  it 
even  so,  unaccountable,  yet  unpretending  in  its  pleasant 
dreariness.  When  my  thoughts  are  sensible  of  change,  I 
love  to  see  and  sit  on  rocks  which  I  have  known,  and  pry  into 
their  moss,  and  see  unchangeableness  so  established.  I  not 
yet  gray  on  rocks  forever  gray,  I  no  longer  green  under  the 
evergreens.  There  is  something  even  in  the  lapse  of  time  by 
which  time  recovers  itself. 

As  we  have  said,  it  proved  a  cool  as  well  as  breezy  day, 
and  by  the  time  we  reached  Penichook  Brook,  we  were 
obliged  to  sit  muffled  in  our  cloaks,  while  the  wind  and  current 
carried  us  along.  We  bounded  swiftly  over  the  rippling 
surface,  far  by  many  cultivated  lands  and  the  ends  of  fences 
which  divided  innumerable  farms,  with  hardly  a  thought  for 
the  various  fives  which  they  separated ;  now  by  long  rows  of 
alders  or  groves  of  pines  or  oaks,  and  now  by  some  homestead 
where  the  women  and  children  stood  outside  to  gaze  at  us, 
till  we  had  swept  out  of  their  sight,  and  beyond  the  limit  of 
their  longest  Saturday  ramble.    We  glided  past  the  mouth 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  261 

of  the  Nashua,  and  not  long  after,  of  Salmon  Brook,  without 
more  pause  than  the  wind.  — 

Salmon  Brook, 
Penichook, 
Ye  sweet  waters  of  my  brain, 
When  shall  I  look, 
Or  cast  the  hook, 
In  your  waves  again? 

Silver  eels, 
Wooden  creels, 
These  the  baits  that  still  allure, 
And  dragon-fly 
That  floated  by,  — 
May  they  still  endure? 

The  shadows  chased  one  another  swiftly  over  wood  and 
meadow,  and  their  alternation  harmonized  with  our  mood. 
We  could  distinguish  the  clouds  which  cast  each  one,  though 
never  so  high  in  the  heavens.  When  a  shadow  flits  across 
the  landscape  of  the  soul,  where  is  the  substance  ?  Probably, 
if  we  were  wise  enough,  we  should  see  to  what  virtue  we  are 
indebted  for  any  happier  moment  we  enjoy.  No  doubt 
we  have  earned  it  at  some  time ;  for  the  gifts  of  Heaven  are 
never  quite  gratuitous.  The  constant  abrasion  and  decay 
of  our  lives  makes  the  soil  of  our  future  growth.  The  wood 
which  we  now  mature,  when  it  becomes  virgin  mould,  deter- 
mines the  character  of  our  second  growth,  whether  that  be 
oaks  or  pines.  Every  man  casts  a  shadow;  not  his  body 
only,  but  his  imperfectly  mingled  spirit;  this  is  his  grief; 
let  him  turn  which  way  he  will,  it  falls  opposite  to  the  sun ; 
short  at  noon,  long  at  eve.  Did  you  never  see  it  ?  —  But, 
referred  to  the  sun,  it  is  widest  at  its  base,  which  is  no  greater 
than  his  own  opacity.  The  divine  light  is  diffused  almost 
entirely  around  us,  and  by  means  of  the  reflection  of  light, 
or  else  by  a  certain  self-luminousness,  or,  as  some  will  have 
it,  transparency,  if  we  preserve  ourselves  untarnished,  we 
are  able  to  enlighten  our  shaded  side.  At  any  rate,  our 
darkest  grief  has  that  bronze  color  of  the  moon  eclipsed. 
There  is  no  ill  which  may  not  be  dissipated,  like  the  dark,  if 
you  let  in  a  stronger  light  upon  it.  Shadows,  referred  to 
the  source  of  light,  are  pyramids  whose  bases  are  never  greater 
than  those  of  the  substances  which  cast  them,  but  light  is  a 


262  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

spherical  congeries  of  pyramids,  whose  very  apexes  are  the 
sun  itself,  and  hence  the  system  shines  with  uninterrupted 
light.  But  if  the  light  we  use  is  but  a  paltry  and  narrow 
taper,  most  objects  will  cast  a  shadow  wider  than  them- 
selves. 

The  places  where  we  had  stopped  or  spent  the  night  in 
our  way  up  the  river,  had  already  acquired  a  slight  historical 
interest  for  us ;  for  many  upward  days'  voyaging  were  un- 
ravelled in  this  rapid  downward  passage.  When  one  landed 
to  stretch  his  limbs  by  walking,  he  soon  found  himself  falling 
behind  his  companion,  and  was  obliged  to  take  advantage 
of  the  curves,  and  ford  the  brooks  and  ravines  in  haste,  to 
recover  his  ground.  Already  the  banks  and  the  distant 
meadows  wore  a  sober  and  deepened  tinge,  for  the  September 
air  had  shorn  them  of  their  summer's  pride.  — 

"And  what's  a  life?     The  flourishing  array 
Of  the  proud  summer  meadow,  which  to-day 
Wears  her  green  plush,  and  is  to-morrow  hay." 

The  air  was  really  the  "fine  element"  which  the  poets  de- 
scribe. It  had  a  finer  and  sharper  grain,  seen  against  the 
russet  pastures  and  meadows,  than  before,  as  if  cleansed  of 
the  summer's  impurities. 

Having  passed  the  New  Hampshire  line  and  reached  the 
Horseshoe  Interval  in  Tyngsboro',  where  there  is  a  high  and 
regular  second  bank,  we  climbed  up  this  in  haste  to  get  a 
nearer  sight  of  the  autumnal  flowers,  asters,  golden-rod,  and 
yarrow,  and  the  trichostema  dichotoma,  humble  road-side 
blossoms,  and,  lingering  still,  the  harebell  and  the  rhexia 
Virginica.  The  last,  growing  in  patches  of  lively  pink 
flowers  on  the  edge  of  the  meadows,  had  almost  too  gay  an 
appearance  for  the  rest  of  the  landscape,  like  a  pink  ribbon 
on  the  bonnet  of  a  Puritan  woman.  Asters  and  golden-rods 
were  the  livery  which  nature  wore  at  present.  The  latter 
alone  expressed  all  the  ripeness  of  the  season,  and  shed  their 
mellow  lustre  over  the  fields,  as  if  the  now  declining  sum- 
mer's sun  had  bequeathed  its  hues  to  them.  It  is  the  floral 
solstice  a  little  after  mid-summer,  when  the  particles  of 
golden  light,  the  sun-dust,  have,  as  it  were,  fallen  like  seeds 
on  the  earth,  and  produced  these  blossoms.  On  every  hill- 
side, and  in  every  valley,  stood  countless  asters,  coreopses, 
tansies,  golden-rods,  and  the  whole  race  of  yellow  flowers, 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  263 

like  Brahminical  devotees,  turning  steadily  with  their  lumi- 
nary from  morning  till  night. 

"I  see  the  golden-rod  shine  bright, 
As  sun-showers  at  the  birth  of  day, 
A  golden  plume  of  yellow  light, 

That  robs  the  Day-god's  splendid  ray. 

"The  aster's  violet  rays  divide 

The  bank  with  many  stars  for  me, 
And  yarrow  in  blanch  tints  is  dyed, 
As  moonlight  floats  across  the  sea. 

"I  see  the  emerald  woods  prepare 
To  shed  their  vestiture  once  more, 
And  distant  elm-trees  spot  the  air 
With  yellow  pictures  softly  o'er.  *  * 

"No  more  the  water-lily's  pride 

In  milk-white  circles  swims  content, 
No  more  the  blue-weed's  clusters  ride 
And  mock  the  heaven's  element.  *  * 

"Autumn,  thy  wreath  and  mine  are  blent 
With  the  same  colors,  for  to  me 
A  richer  sky  than  all  is  lent, 

While  fades  my  dream-like  company. 

"Our  skies  glow  purple,  but  the  wind 

Sobs  chill  through  green  trees  and  bright  grass, 
To-day  shines  fair,  and  lurk  behind 
The  times  that  into  winter  pass. 

"So  fair  we  seem,  so  cold  we  are, 
So  fast  we  hasten  to  decay, 
Yet  through  our  night  glows  many  a  star, 
That  still  shall  claim  its  sunny  day." 

So  sang  a  Concord  poet  once. 

There  is  a  peculiar  interest  belonging  to  the  still  later 
flowers,  which  abide  with  us  the  approach  of  winter.  There 
is  something  witchlike  in  the  appearance  of  the  witch-hazel, 
which  blossoms  late  in  October  and  in  November,  with  its 
irregular  and  angular  spray  and  petals  like  furies'  hair,  or 
small  ribbon  streamers.  Its  blossoming,  too,  at  this  irregular 
period,  when  other  shrubs  have  lost  their  leaves,  as  well  as 


264  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

blossoms,  looks  like  witches'  craft.  Certainly  it  blooms  in 
no  garden  of  man's.  There  is  a  whole  fairy-land  on  the  hill- 
side where  it  grows. 

Some  have  thought  that  the  gales  do  not  at  present  waft 
to  the  voyager  the  natural  and  original  fragrance  of  the  land, 
such  as  the  early  navigators  described,  and  that  the  loss  of 
many  odoriferous  native  plants,  sweet-scented  grasses  and 
medicinal  herbs,  which  formerly  sweetened  the  atmosphere, 
and  rendered  it  salubrious,  by  the  grazing  of  cattle  and  the 
rooting  of  swine,  is  the  source  of  many  diseases  which  now 
prevail  ;  the  earth,  say  they,  having  been  long  subjected  to 
extremely  artificial  and  luxurious  modes  of  cultivation,  to 
gratify  the  appetite,  converted  into  a  stye  and  hot-bed, 
where  men  for  profit  increase  the  ordinary  decay  of  nature. 

According  to  the  record  of  an  old  inhabitant  of  Tyngsboro', 
now  dead,  whose  farm  we  were  now  gliding  past,  one  of  the 
greatest  freshets  on  this  river  took  place  in  October,  1785, 
and  its  height  was  marked  by  a  nail  driven  into  an  apple 
tree  behind  his  house.  One  of  his  descendants  has  shown 
this  to  me,  and  I  judged  it  to  be  at  least  seventeen  or  eight- 
een feet  above  the  level  of  the  river  at  the  time.  Before  the 
Lowell  and  Nashua  railroad  was  built,  the  engineer  made 
inquiries  of  the  inhabitants  along  the  banks  as  to  how  high 
they  had  known  the  river  to  rise.  When  he  came  to  this 
house  he  was  conducted  to  the  apple  tree,  and  as  the  nail 
was  not  then  visible,  the  lady  of  the  house  placed  her  hand 
on  the  trunk  where  she  said  that  she  remembered  the  nail 
to  have  been  from  her  childhood.  In  the  meanwhile  the  old 
man  put  his  arm  inside  the  tree,  which  was  hollow,  and  felt 
the  point  of  the  nail  sticking  through,  and  it  was  exactly 
opposite  to  her  hand.  The  spot  is  now  plainly  marked  by 
a  notch  in  the  bark.  But  as  no  one  else  remembered  the 
river  to  have  risen  so  high  as  this,  the  engineer  disregarded 
this  statement,  and  I  learn  that  there  has  since  been  a  freshet 
which  rose  within  nine  inches  of  the  rails  at  Biscuit  Brook, 
and  such  a  freshet  as  that  of  1785  would  have  covered  the 
railroad  two  feet  deep. 

The  revolutions  of  nature  tell  as  fine  tales,  and  make  as 
interesting  revelations,  on  this  river's  banks,  as  on  the 
Euphrates  or  the  Nile.  This  apple  tree,  which  stands  within 
a  few  rods  of  the  river,  is  called  "  Elisha's  apple  tree,"  .from 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  265 

a  friendly  Indian,  who  was  anciently  in  the  service  of  Jona- 
than Tyng,  and,  with  one  other  man,  was  killed  here  by  his 
own  race  in  one  of  the  Indian  wars,  —  the  particulars  of  which 
affair  were  told  us  on  the  spot.  He  was  buried  close  by,  no 
one  knew  exactly  where,  but  in  the  flood  of  1785,  so  great 
a  weight  of  water  standing  over  the  grave,  caused  the  earth 
to  settle  where  it  had  once  been  disturbed,  and  when  the 
flood  went  down,  a  sunken  spot,  exactly  of  the  form  and  size 
of  the  grave,  revealed  its  locality,  but  this  was  now  lost 
again,  and  no  future  flood  can  detect  it;  yet,  no  doubt, 
Nature  will  know  how  to  point  it  out  in  due  time,  if  it  be 
necessary,  by  methods  yet  more  searching  and  unexpected. 
Thus  there  is  not  only  the  crisis  when  the  spirit  ceases  to 
inspire  and  expand  the  body,  marked  by  a  fresh  mound  in 
the  church-yard,  but  there  is  also  a  crisis  when  the  body 
ceases  to  take  up  room  as  such  in  nature,  marked  by  a  fainter 
depression  in  the  earth. 

We  sat  awhile  to  rest  us  here  upon  the  brink  of  the  western 
bank,  surrounded  by  the  glossy  leaves  of  the  red  variety  of 
the  mountain  laurel,  just  above  the  head  of  Wicasuck  Island, 
where  we  could  observe  some  scows  which  were  loading  with 
clay  from  the  opposite  shore,  and  also  overlook  the  grounds 
of  the  farmer,  of  whom  I  have  spoken,  who  once  hospitably 
entertained  us  for  a  night.  He  had  on  his  pleasant  farm, 
besides  an  abundance  of  the  beach  plum,  or  prunus  littoralis, 
which  grew  wild,  the  Canada  plum  under  cultivation,  fine 
Porter  apples,  some  peaches,  and  large  patches  of  musk  and 
watermelons,  which  he  cultivated  for  the  Lowell  market. 
Elisha's  apple  tree,  too,  bore  a  native  fruit,  which  was  prized 
by  the  family.  He  raised  the  blood  peach,  which,  as  he 
snowed  us  with  satisfaction,  was  more  like  the  oak  in  the 
color  of  its  bark  and  in  the  setting  of  its  branches,  and  was 
less  liable  to  break  down  under  the  weight  of  the  fruit,  or 
the  snow,  than  other  varieties.  It  was  of  slower  growth, 
and  its  branches  strong  and  tough.  There,  also,  was  his 
nursery  of  native  apple  trees,  thickly  set  upon  the  bank, 
which  cost  but  little  care,  and  which  he  sold  to  the  neighbor- 
ing farmers  when  they  were  five  or  six  years  old.  To  see 
a  single  peach  upon  its  stem  makes  an  impression  of  paradi- 
saical fertility  and  luxury.  This  reminds  us  even  of  an  old 
Roman  farm,  as  described  by  Varro :  "  Caesar  Vopiscus 
^Edilicius,  when  he  pleaded  before  the  Censors,  said  that 


266  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

the  grounds  of  Rosea  were  the  garden  (sumen  the  tid-bit)  of 
Italy,  in  which  a  pole  being  left  would  not  be  visible  the  day- 
after,  on  account  of  the  growth  of  the  herbage."  This  soil 
may  not  have  been  remarkably  fertile,  yet  at  this  distance 
we  thought  that  this  anecdote  might  be  told  of  the  Tyngs- 
boro'  farm. 

When  we  passed  Wicasuck  Island,  there  was  a  pleasure 
boat  containing  a  youth  and  a  maiden  on  the  island  brook, 
which  we  were  pleased  to  see,  since  it  proved  that  there  were 
some  hereabouts  to  whom  our  excursions  would  not  be 
wholly  strange.  Before  this,  a  canal-boatman,  of  whom 
we  made  some  inquiries  respecting  Wicasuck  Island,  and  who 
told  us  that  it  was  disputed  property,  supposed  that  we  had 
a  claim  upon  it,  and  though  we  assured  him  that  all  this  was 
news  to  us,  and  explained,  as  well  as  we  could,  why  we  had 
come  to  see  it,  he  believed  not  a  word  of  it,  and  seriously 
offered  us  one  hundred  dollars  for  our  title.  The  only  other 
small  boats  which  we  met  with  were  used  to  pick  up  drift- 
wood. Some  of  the  poorer  class  along  the  stream  collect, 
in  this  way,  all  the  fuel  which  they  require.  While  one  of 
us  landed  not  far  from  this  island  to  forage  for  provisions 
among  the  farm-houses  whose  roofs  we  saw,  for  our  supply 
was  now  exhausted,  the  other,  sitting  in  the  boat,  which 
was  moored  to  the  shore,  was  left  alone  to  his  reflections. 

If  there  is  nothing  new  on  the  earth,  still  the  traveller 
always  has  a  resource  in  the  skies.  They  are  constantly 
turning  a  new  page  to  view.  The  wind  sets  the  types  on 
this  blue  ground,  and  the  inquiring  may  always  read  a  new 
truth  there.  There  are  things  there  written  with  such  fine 
and  subtle  tinctures,  paler  than  the  juice  of  limes,  that  to 
the  diurnal  eye  they  leave  no  trace,  and  only  the  chemistry 
of  night  reveals  them.  Every  man's  daylight  firmament 
answers  in  his  mind  to  the  brightness  of  the  vision  in  his 
starriest  hour. 

These  continents  and  hemispheres  are  soon  run  over,  but 
an  always  unexplored  and  infinite  region  makes  off  on  every 
side  from  the  mind,  further  than  to  sunset,  and  we  can  make 
no  highway  or  beaten  track  into  it,  but  the  grass  immediately 
springs  up  in  the  path,  for  we  travel  there  chiefly  with  our 
wings. 

Sometimes  we  see  objects  as  through  a  thin  haze,  in  their 
eternal  relations,  and  they  stand  like  Palenque  and  the 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  267 

Pyramids,  and  we  wonder  who  set  them  up,  and  for  what 
purpose.  If  we  see  the  reality  in  things,  of  what  moment  is 
the  superficial  and  apparent  longer?  What  are  the  earth 
and  all  its  interests  beside  the  deep  surmise  which  pierces 
and  scatters  them?  While  I  sit  here  listening  to  the  waves 
which  ripple  and  break  on  this  shore,  I  am  absolved  from  all 
obligation  to  the  past,  and  the  council  of  nations  may  re- 
consider its  votes.  The  grating  of  a  pebble  annuls  them. 
Still  occasionally  in  my  dreams  I  remember  that  rippling 
water.  — 

Oft,  as  I  turn  me  on  my  pillow  o'er, 
I  hear  the  lapse  of  waves  upon  the  shore, 
Distinct  as  if  it  were  at  broad  noon-day, 
And  I  were  drifting  down  from  Nashua. 

With  a  bending  sail  we  glided  rapidly  by  Tyngsboro' 
and  Chelmsford,  each  holding  in  one  hand  half  of  a  tart 
country  apple-pie  which  we  had  purchased  to  celebrate  our 
return,  and  in  the  other  a  fragment  of  the  newspaper  in 
which  it  was  wrapped,  devouring  these  with  divided  relish, 
and  learning  the  news  which  had  transpired  since  we  sailed. 
The  river  here  opened  into  a  broad  and  straight  reach  of  great 
length,  which  we  bounded  merrily  over  before  a  smacking 
breeze,  with  a  devil-may-care  look  in  our  faces,  and  our  boat 
a  white  bone  in  its  mouth,  and  a  speed  which  greatly  aston- 
ished some  scow  boatmen  whom  we  met.  The  wind  in  the 
horizon  rolled  like  a  flood  over  valley  and  plain,  and  every 
tree  bent  to  the  blast,  and  the  mountains  like  school-boys 
turned  their  cheeks  to  it.  They  were  great  and  current 
motions,  the  flowing  sail,  the  running  stream,  the  waving 
tree,  the  roving  wind.  The  north  wind  stepped  readily  into 
the  harness  which  we  had  provided,  and  pulled  us  along 
with  good  will.  Sometimes  we  sailed  as  gently  and  steadily 
as  the  clouds  overhead,  watching  the  receding  shores  and  the 
motions  of  our  sail;  the  play  of  its  pulse  so  like  our  own 
lives,  so  thin  and  yet  so  full  of  life,  so  noiseless  when  it  labored 
hardest,  so  noisy  and  impatient  when  least  effective;  now 
bending  to  some  generous  impulse  of  the  breeze,  and  then 
fluttering  and  flapping  with  a  kind  of  human  suspense.  It 
was  the  scale  on  which  the  varying  temperature  of  distant 
atmospheres  was  graduated,  and  it  was  some  attraction  for 
us  that  the  breeze  it  played  with  had  been  out  of  doors  so 


268  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

long.  Thus  we  sailed,  not  being  able  to  fly,  but  as  next 
best,  making  a  long  furrow  in  the  fields  of  the  Merrimack 
toward  our  home,  with  our  wings  spread,  but  never  lifting 
our  heel  from  the  watery  trench ;  gracefully  plowing  home- 
ward with  our  brisk  and  willing  team,  wind  and  stream, 
pulling  together,  the  former  yet  a  wild  steer,  yoked  to  his 
more  sedate  fellow.  It  was  very  near  flying,  as  when  the 
duck  rushes  through  the  water  with  an  impulse  of  her  wings, 
throwing  the  spray  about  her,  before  she  can  rise.  How 
we  had  stuck  fast  if  drawn  up  but  a  few  feet  on  the  shore ! 

When  we  reached  the  great  bend  just  above  Middlesex, 
where  the  river  runs  east  thirty-five  miles  to  the  sea,  we  at 
length  lost  the  aid  of  this  propitious  wind,  though  we  con- 
trived to  make  one  long  and  judicious  tack  carry  us  nearly 
to  the  locks  of  the  canal.  We  were  here  locked  through  at 
noon  by  our  old  friend,  the  lover  of  the  higher  mathematics, 
who  seemed  glad  to  see  us  safe  back  again  through  so  many 
locks ;  but  we  did  not  stop  to  consider  any  of  his  problems, 
though  we  could  cheerfully  have  spent  a  whole  autumn  in 
this  way  another  time,  and  never  have  asked  what  his  religion 
was.  It  is  so  rare  to  meet  with  a  man  out-doors  who  cherishes 
a  worthy  thought  in  his  mind,  which  is  independent  of  the 
labor  of  his  hands.  Behind  every  man's  busy-ness  there 
should  be  a  level  of  undisturbed  serenity  and  industry,  as 
within  the  reef  encircling  a  coral  isle  there  is  always  an 
expanse  of  still  water,  where  the  depositions  are  going  on 
which  will  finally  raise  it  above  the  surface. 

The  eye  which  can  appreciate  the  naked  and  absolute 
beauty  of  a  scientific  truth  is  far  more  rare  than  that  which 
is  attracted  by  a  moral  one.  Few  detect  the  morality  in 
the  former,  or  the  science  in  the  latter.  Aristotle  defined 
art  to  be  Aoyos  rov  Ipyov  dvev  v\.rj<s,  the  principle  of  the 
work  without  the  wood;  but  most  men  prefer  to  have  some  of 
the  wood  along  with  the  principle ;  they  demand  that  the 
truth  be  clothed  in  flesh  and  blood  and  the  warm  colors  of 
life.  They  prefer  the  partial  statement  because  it  fits  and 
measures  them  and  their  commodities  best.  But  science 
still  exists  everywhere  as  the  sealer  of  weights  and  measures 
at  least. 

We  have  heard  much  about  the  poetry  of  mathematics, 
but  very  little  of  it  has  yet  been  sung.  The  ancients  had 
a  juster  notion  of  their  poetic  value  than  we.    The  most 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  269 

distinct  and  beautiful  statement  of  any  truth  must  take  at 
last  the  mathematical  form.  We  might  so  simplify  the  rules 
of  moral  philosophy,  as  well  as  of  arithmetic,  that  one  for- 
mula would  express  them  both.  All  the  moral  laws  are 
readily  translated  into  natural  philosophy,  for  often  we 
have  only  to  restore  the  primitive  meaning  of  the  words  by 
which  they  are  expressed,  or  to  attend  to  their  literal  instead 
of  their  metaphorical  sense.  They  are  already  supernatural 
philosophy.  The  whole  body  of  what  is  now  called  moral 
or  ethical  truth  existed  in  the  golden  age  as  abstract  science. 
Or,  if  we  prefer,  we  may  say  that  the  laws  of  Nature  are  the 
purest  morality.  The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  a  Tree  of  Knowl- 
edge of  good  and  evil.  He  is  not  a  true  man  of  science  who 
does  not  bring  some  sympathy  to  his  studies,  and  expect 
to  learn  something  by  behavior  as  well  as  by  application. 
It  is  childish  to  rest  in  the  discovery  of  mere  coincidences, 
or  of  partial  and  extraneous  laws.  The  study  of  geometry 
is  a  petty  and  idle  exercise  of  the  mind,  if  it  is  applied  to  no 
larger  system  than  the  starry  one.  Mathematics  should  be 
mixed  not  only  with  physics  but  with  ethics,  thai  is  mixed 
mathematics.  The  fact  which  interests  us  most  is  the  life 
of  the  naturalist.  The  purest  science  is  still  biographical. 
Nothing  will  dignify  and  elevate  science  while  it  is  sundered 
so  wholly  from  the  moral  life  of  its  devotee,  and  he  professes 
another  religion  than  it  teaches,  and  worships  at  a  foreign 
shrine.  Anciently  the  faith  of  a  philosopher  was  identical 
with  his  system,  or,  in  other  words,  his  view  of  the  universe. 

My  friends  mistake  when  they  communicate  facts  to  me 
with  so  much  pains.  Their  presence,  even  their  exaggera- 
tions and  loose  statements,  are  equally  good  facts  for  me. 
I  have  no  respect  for  facts  even  except  when  I  would  use 
them,  and  for  the  most  part  I  am  independent  of  those  which 
I  hear,  and  can  afford  to  be  inaccurate,  or,  in  other  words, 
to  substitute  more  present  and  pressing  facts  in  their  place. 

The  poet  uses  the  results  of  science  and  philosophy,  and 
generalizes  their  widest  deductions. 

The  process  of  discovery  is  very  simple.  An  unwearied 
and  systematic  application  of  known  laws  to  nature,  causes 
the  unknown  to  reveal  themselves.  Almost  any  mode  of 
observation  will  be  successful  at  last,  for  what  is  most  wanted 
is  method.  Only  let  something  be  determined  and  fixed 
around   which    observation    may    rally.    How   many    new 


270  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

relations  a  foot-rule  alone  will  reveal,  and  to  how  many 
things  still  this  has  not  been  applied!  What  wonderful 
discoveries  have  been,  and  may  still  be,  made,  with  a  plumb- 
line,  a  level,  a  surveyor's  compass,  a  thermometer,  or  a 
barometer !  Where  there  is  an  observatory  and  a  telescope, 
we  expect  that  any  eyes  will  see  new  worlds  at  once.  I  should 
say  that  the  most  prominent  scientific  men  of  our  country, 
and  perhaps  of  this  age,  are  either  serving  the  arts,  and  not 
pure  science,  or  are  performing  faithful  but  quite  subordinate 
labors  in  particular  departments.  They  make  no  steady 
and  systematic  approaches  to  the  central  fact.  A  discovery 
is  made,  and  at  once  the  attention  of  all  observers  is  dis- 
tracted to  that,  and  it  draws  many  analogous  discoveries 
in  its  train ;  as  if  their  work  were  not  already  laid  out  for 
them,  but  they  had  been  lying  on  their  oars.  There  is  want- 
ing constant  and  accurate  observation  with  enough  of  theory 
to  direct  and  discipline  it. 

But  above  all,  there  is  wanting  genius.  Our  books  of 
science,  as  they  improve  in  accuracy,  are  in  danger  of  losing 
the  freshness  and  vigor  and  readiness  to  appreciate  the  real 
laws  of  Nature,  which  is  a  marked  merit  in  the  ofttimes  false 
theories  of  the  ancients.  I  am  attracted  by  the  slight  pride 
and  satisfaction,  the  emphatic  and  even  exaggerated  style 
in  which  some  of  the  older  naturalists  speak  of  the  operations 
of  Nature,  though  they  are  better  qualified  to  appreciate 
than  to  discriminate  the  facts.  Their  assertions  are  not 
without  value  when  disproved.  If  they  are  not  facts,  they 
are  suggestions  for  Nature  herself  to  act  upon.  "  The 
Greeks,"  says  Gesner,  "  had  a  common  proverb  (Aayws 
K$aevS(ov)  a  sleeping  hare,  for  a  dissembler  or  counterfeit; 
because  the  hare  sees  when  she  sleeps ;  for  this  is  an  admirable 
and  rare  work  of  Nature,  that  all  the  residue  of  her  bodily 
parts  take  their  rest,  but  the  eye  standeth  continually  sen- 
tinel." 

Observation  is  so  wide  awake,  and  facts  are  being  so  rapidly 
added  to  the  sum  of  human  experience,  that  it  appears  as 
if  the  theorizer  would  always  be  in  arrears,  and  were  doomed 
forever  to  arrive  at  imperfect  conclusions;  but  the  power 
to  perceive  a  law  is  equally  rare  in  all  ages  of  the  world,  and 
depends  but  little  on  the  number  of  facts  observed.  The 
senses  of  the  savage  will  furnish  him  with  facts  enough  to 
set  him  up  as  a  philosopher.    The  ancients  can  still  speak 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  271 

to  us  with  authority  even  on  the  themes  of  geology  and 
chemistry,  though  these  studies  are  thought  to  have  had  their 
birth  in  modern  times.  Much  is  said  about  the  progress 
of  science  in  these  centuries.  I  should  say  that  the  useful 
results  of  science  had  accumulated,  but  that  there  had  been 
no  accumulation  of  knowledge,  strictly  speaking,  for  pos- 
terity; for  knowledge  is  to  be  acquired  only  by  a  corre- 
sponding experience.  How  can  we  know  what  we  are  told 
merely?  Each  man  can  interpret  another's  experience  only 
by  his  own.  We  read  that  Newton  discovered  the  law  of 
gravitation,  but  how  many  who  have  heard  of  his  famous 
discovery  have  recognized  the  same  truth  that  he  did?  It 
may  be  not  one.  The  revelation  which  was  then  made  to 
him  has  not  been  superseded  by  the  revelation  made  to  any 
successor.  — 

We  see  the  planet  fall, 

And  that  is  all. 

In  a  review  of  Sir  James  Clark  Ross's  Antarctic  Voyage  of 
Discovery,  there  is  a  passage  which  shows  how  far  a  body 
of  men  are  commonly  impressed  by  an  object  of  sublimity, 
and  which  is  also  a  good  instance  of  the  step  from  the  sublime 
to  the  ridiculous.  After  describing  the  discovery  of  the 
Antarctic  Continent,  at  first  seen  a  hundred  miles  distant 
over  fields  of  ice,  —  stupendous  ranges  of  mountains  from 
seven  and  eight  to  twelve  and  fourteen  thousand  feet  high, 
covered  with  eternal  snow  and  ice,  in  solitary  and  inaccessible 
grandeur,  at  one  time  the  weather  being  beautifully  clear, 
and  the  sun  shining  on  the  icy  landscape ;  a  continent  whose 
islands  only  are  accessible,  and  these  exhibited  "  not  the 
smallest  trace  of  vegetation,"  only  in  a  few  places  the  rocks 
protruding  through  their  icy  covering,  to  convince  the 
beholder  that  land  formed  the  nucleus,  and  that  it  was  not 
an  iceberg;  —  the  practical  British  reviewer  proceeds  thus, 
sticking  to  his  last,  "  On  the  22d  of  January,  afternoon,  the 
Expedition  made  the  latitude  of  74°  20',  and  by  7h  p.  m., 
having  ground  to  believe  that  they  were  then  in  a  higher 
southern  latitude  than  had  been  attained  by  that  enterprising 
seaman,  the  late  Captain  James  Weddel,  and  therefore 
higher  than  all  their  predecessors,  an  extra  allowance  of 
grog  was  issued  to  the  crews  as  a  reward  for  their  persever- 


272  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

Let  not  us  sailors  of  late  centuries  take  upon  ourselves 
any  airs  on  account  of  our  Newtons  and  our  Cuviers.  We 
deserve  an  extra  allowance  of  grog  only. 

We  endeavored  in  vain  to  persuade  the  wind  to  blow 
through  the  long  corridor  of  the  canal,  which  is  here  cut 
straight  through  the  woods,  and  were  obliged  to  resort  to 
our  old  expedient  of  drawing  by  a  cord.  When  we  reached 
the  Concord,  we  were  forced  to  row  once  more  in  good  earnest, 
with  neither  wind  nor  current  in  our  favor,  but  by  this  time 
the  rawness  of  the  day  had  disappeared,  and  we  experienced 
the  warmth  of  a  summer  afternoon.  This  change  in  the 
weather  was  favorable  to  our  contemplative  mood,  and  dis- 
posed us  to  dream  yet  deeper  at  our  oars,  while  we  floated 
in  imagination  further  down  the  stream  of  time,  as  we  had 
floated  down  the  stream  of  the  Merrimack,  to  poets  of  a 
milder  period  than  had  engaged  us  in  the  morning.  Chelms- 
ford and  Billerica  appeared  like  old  English  towns,  compared 
with  Merrimack  and  Nashua,  and  many  generations  of  civil 
poets  might  have  lived  and  sung  here. 

What  a  contrast  between  the  stern  and  desolate  poetry 
of  Ossian,  and  that  of  Chaucer,  and  even  of  Shakespeare 
and  Milton,  much  more  of  Dryden,  and  Pope,  and  Gray. 
Our  summer  of  English  poetry,  like  the  Greek  and  Latin 
before  it,  seems  well  advanced  toward  its  fall,  and  laden  with 
the  fruit  and  foliage  of  the  season,  with  bright  autumnal 
tints,  but  soon  the  winter  will  scatter  its  myriad  clustering 
and  shading  leaves,  and  leave  only  a  few  desolate  and  fibrous 
boughs  to  sustain  the  snow  and  rime,  and  creak  in  the  blasts 
of  ages.  We  cannot  escape  the  impression  that  the  Muse 
has  stooped  a  little  in  her  flight,  when  we  come  to  the  litera- 
ture of  civilized  eras.  Now  first  we  hear  of  various  ages  and 
styles  of  poetry ;  it  is  pastoral,  and  lyric,  and  narrative,  and 
didactic ;  but  the  poetry  of  runic  monuments  is  of  one  style, 
and  for  every  age.  The  bard  has  in  a  great  measure  lost 
the  dignity  and  sacredness  of  his  office.  Formerly  he  was 
called  a  seer,  but  now  it  is  thought  that  one  man  sees  as  much 
as  another.  He  has  no  longer  the  bardic  rage,  and  only 
conceives  the  deed,  which  he  formerly  stood  ready  to  perform. 
Hosts  of  warriors  earnest  for  battle  could  not  mistake  nor 
dispense  with  the  ancient  bard.  His  lays  were  heard  in  the 
pauses  of  the  fight.    There  was  no  danger  of  his  being  over- 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  273 

looked  by  his  contemporaries.  But  now  the  hero  and  the 
bard  are  of  different  professions.  When  we  come  to  the 
pleasant  English  verse,  the  storms  have  all  cleared  away, 
and  it  will  never  thunder  and  lighten  more.  The  poet  has 
come  within  doors,  and  exchanged  the  forest  and  crag  for 
the  fireside,  the  hut  of  the  Gael,  and  Stonehenge  with  its 
circles  of  stones,  for  the  house  of  the  Englishman.  No  hero 
stands  at  the  door  prepared  to  break  forth  into  song  or  heroic 
action,  but  a  homely  Englishman,  who  cultivates  the  art  of 
poetry.  We  see  the  comfortable  fireside,  and  hear  the  crack- 
ling fagots  in  all  the  verse. 

Notwithstanding  the  broad  humanity  of  Chaucer,  and  the 
many  social  and  domestic  comforts  which  we  meet  with  in 
his  verse,  we  have  to  narrow  our  vision  somewhat  to  consider 
him,  as  if  he  occupied  less  space  in  the  landscape,  and  did 
not  stretch  over  hill  and  valley  as  Ossian  does.  Yet,  seen 
from  the  side  of  posterity,  as  the  father  of  English  poetry, 
preceded  by  a  long  silence  or  confusion  in  history,  unen- 
livened by  any  strain  of  pure  melody,  we  easily  come  to 
reverence  him.  Passing  over  the  earlier  continental  poets, 
since  we  are  bound  to  the  pleasant  archipelago  of  English 
poetry,  Chaucer's  is  the  first  name  after  that  misty  weather 
in  which  Ossian  lived,  which  can  detain  us  long.  Indeed, 
though  he  represents  so  different  a  culture  and  society,  he 
may  be  regarded  as  in  many  respects  the  Homer  of  the 
English  poets.  t  Perhaps  he  is  the  youthfulest  of  them  all. 
We  return  to  him  as  to  the  purest  well,  the  fountain  furthest 
removed  from  the  highway  of  desultory  life.  He  is  so  natural 
and  cheerful,  compared  with  later  poets,  that  we  might  almost 
regard  him  as  a  personification  of  spring.  To  the  faithful 
reader  his  muse  has  even  given  an  aspect  to  his  times,  and 
when  he  is  fresh  from  perusing  him,  they  seem  related  to 
the  golden  age.  It  is  still  the  poetry  of  youth  and  life,  rather 
than  of  thought;  and  though  the  moral  vein  is  obvious 
and  constant,  it  has  not  yet  banished  the  sun  and  daylight 
from  his  verse.  The  loftiest  strains  of  the  muse  are,  for  the 
most  part,  sublimely  plaintive,  and  not  a  carol  as  free  as 
nature's.  The  content  which  the  sun  shines  to  celebrate 
from  morning  to  evening,  is  unsung.  The  muse  solaces 
herself,  and  is  not  ravished  but  consoled.  There  is  a  catas- 
trophe implied,  and  a  tragic  element  in  all  our  verse,  and  less 
of  the  lark  and  morning  dews,  than  of  the  nightingale  and 


274  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

evening  shades.  But  in  Homer  and  Chaucer  there  is  more 
of  the  innocence  and  serenity  of  youth,  than  in  the  more 
modern  and  moral  poets.  The  Iliad  is  not  Sabbath  but 
morning  reading,  and  men  cling  to  this  old  song,  because 
they  still  have  moments  of  unbaptized  and  uncommitted 
life,  which  give  them  an  appetite  for  more.  To  the  inno- 
cent there  are  neither  cherubim  nor  angels.  At  rare  inter- 
vals we  rise  above  the  necessity  of  virtue  into  an  unchangeable 
morning  light,  in  which  we  have  only  to  live  right  on  and 
breathe  the  ambrosial  air.  The  Iliad  represents  no  creed  nor 
opinion,  and  we  read  it  with  a  rare  sense  of  freedom  and 
irresponsibility,  as  if  we  trod  on  native  ground,  and  were 
autochthones  of  the  soil. 

Chaucer  had  eminently  the  habits  of  a  literary  man  and 
a  scholar.  There  were  never  any  times  so  stirring  that  there 
were  not  to  be  found  some  sedentary  still.  He  was  sur- 
rounded by  the  din  of  arms.  The  battles  of  Halidon  Hill 
and  Neville's  Cross,  and  the  still  more  memorable  battles 
of  Cressy  and  Poictiers,  were  fought  in  his  youth ;  but  these 
did  not  concern  our  poet  much,  Wickliffe  and  his  reform 
much  more.  He  regarded  himself  always  as  one  privileged 
to  sit  and  converse  with  books.  He  helped  to  establish 
the  literary  class.  His  character  as  one  of  the  fathers  of  the 
English  language,  would  alone  make  his  works  important, 
even  those  which  have  little  poetical  merit.  He  was  as 
simple  as  Wordsworth  in  preferring  his  homely  but  vigorous 
Saxon  tongue,  when  it  was  neglected  by  the  court,  and  had 
not  yet  attained  to  the  dignity  of  a  literature,  and  rendered 
a  similar  service  to  his  country  to  that  which  Dante  rendered 
to  Italy.  If  Greek  sufficeth  for  Greek,  and  Arabic  for 
Arabian,  and  Hebrew  for  Jew,  and  Latin  for  Latin,  then 
English  shall  suffice  for  him,  for  any  of  these  will  serve  to 
teach  truth  "  right  as  divers  pathes  leaden  divers  folkethe 
right  waye  to  Rome."  In  the  Testament  of  Love  he  writes, 
"  Let  then  clerkes  enditen  in  Latin,  for  they  have  the  propertie 
of  science,  and  the  knowinge  in  that  facultie,  and  lette 
Frenchmen  in  their  Frenche  also  enditen  their  queinte 
termes,  for  it  is  kyndely  to  their  mouthes,  and  let  us  she  we 
our  fantasies  in  soche  wordes  as  we  lerneden  of  our  dame's 
tonge." 

He  will  know  how  to  appreciate  Chaucer  best,  who  has 
come  down  to  him  the  natural  way,  through  the  meagre 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  275 

pastures  of  Saxon  and  ante-Chaucerian  poetry;  and  yet, 
so  human  and  wise  he  appears  after  such  diet,  that  we  are 
liable  to  misjudge  him  still.  In  the  Saxon  poetry  extant, 
in  the  earliest  English,  and  the  contemporary  Scottish  poetry, 
there  is  less  to  remind  the  reader  of  the  rudeness  and  vigor 
of  youth,  than  of  the  feebleness  of  a  declining  age.  It  is  for 
the  most  part  translation  or  imitation  merely,  with  only  an 
occasional  and  slight  tinge  of  poetry,  oftentimes  the  false- 
hood and  exaggeration  of  fable,  without  its  imagination  to 
redeem  it,  and  we  look  in  vain  to  find  antiquity  restored, 
humanized,  and  made  blithe  again  by  some  natural  sympathy 
between  it  and  the  present.  But  Chaucer  is  fresh  and  modern 
still,  and  no  dust  settles  on  his  true  passages.  It  lightens 
along  the  line,  and  we  are  reminded  that  flowers  have  bloomed, 
and  birds  sung,  and  hearts  beaten,  in  England.  Before 
the  earnest  gaze  of  the  reader,  the  rust  and  moss  of  time 
gradually  drop  off,  and  the  original  green  life  is  revealed. 
He  was  a  homely  and  domestic  man,  and  did  breathe  quite  as 
modern  men  do. 

There  is  no  wisdom  that  can  take  place  of  humanity,  and 
we  find  that  in  Chaucer.  We  can  expand  at  last  in  his  breath, 
and  we  think  that  we  could  have  been  that  man's  acquaint- 
ance. He  was  worthy  to  be  a  citizen  of  England,  while 
Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  lived  in  Italy,  and  Tell  and  Tamerlane 
in  Switzerland  and  in  Asia,  and  Bruce  in  Scotland,  and  Wick- 
liffe,  and  Gower,  and  Edward  the  Third,  and  John  of  Gaunt, 
and  the  Black  Prince,  were  his  own  countrymen  as  well  as 
contemporaries;  all  stout  and  stirring  names.  The  fame 
of  Roger  Bacon  came  down  from  the  preceding  century, 
and  the  name  of  Dante  still  possessed  the  influence  of  a  living 
presence.  On  the  whole,  Chaucer  impresses  us  as  greater 
thanh  is  reputation,  and  not  a  little  like  Homer  and  Shake- 
speare, for  he  would  have  held  up  his  head  in  their  company. 
Among  early  English  poets  he  is  the  landlord  and  host,  and 
has  the  authority  of  such.  The  affectionate  mention  which 
succeeding  early  poets  make  of  him,  coupling  him  with  Homer 
and  Virgil,  is  to  be  taken  into  the  account  in  estimating  his 
character  and  influence.  King  James  and  Dunbar  of  Scot- 
land speak  of  him  with  more  love  and  reverence  than  any 
modern  author  of  his  predecessors  of  the  last  century.  The 
same  childlike  relation  is  without  a  parallel  now.  For  the 
most  part  we  read  him  without  criticism,  for  he  does  not 


276  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

plead  his  own  cause,  but  speaks  for  his  readers,  and  has  that 
greatness  of  trust  and  reliance  which  compels  popularity. 
He  confides  in  the  reader,  and  speaks  privily  with  him,  keep- 
ing nothing  back.  And  in  return  the  reader  has  great 
confidence  in  him,  that  he  tells  no  lies,  and  reads  his  story 
with  indulgence,  as  if  it  were  the  circumlocution  of  a  child, 
but  often  discovers  afterwards  that  he  has  spoken  with  more 
directness  and  economy  of  words  than  a  sage.  He  is  never 
heartless, 

"For  first  the  thing  is  thought  within  the  hart, 
Er  any  word  out  from  the  mouth  astart." 

And  so  new  was  all  his  theme  in  those  days,  that  he  did  not 
have  to  invent,  but  only  to  tell. 

We  admire  Chaucer  for  his  sturdy  English  wit.  The 
easy  height  he  speaks  from  in  his  Prologue  to  the  Canter- 
bury Tales,  as  if  he  were  equal  to  any  of  the  company  there 
assembled,  is  as  good  as  any  particular  excellence  in  it.  But 
though  it  is  full  of  good  sense  and  humanity,  it  is  not  tran- 
scendent poetry.  For  picturesque  descriptions  of  persons 
it  is,  perhaps,  without  a  parallel  in  English  poetry;  yet  it 
is  essentially  humorous,  as  the  loftiest  genius  never  is. 
Humor,  however  broad  and  genial,  takes  a  narrower  view 
than  enthusiasm.  To  his  own  finer  vein  he  added  all  the 
common  wit  and  wisdom  of  his  time,  and  everywhere  in 
his  works  his  remarkable  knowledge  of  the  world  and  nice 
perception  of  character,  his  rare  common  sense  and  pro- 
verbial wisdom,  are  apparent.  His  genius  does  not  soar  like 
Milton's,  but  is  genial  and  familiar.  It  shows  great  tender- 
ness and  delicacy,  but  not  the  heroic  sentiment.  It  is  only 
a  greater  portion  of  humanity  with  all  its  weakness.  He 
is  not  heroic,  as  Raleigh,  nor  pious,  as  Herbert,  nor  philo- 
sophical, as  Shakespeare,  but  he  is  the  child  of  the  English 
muse,  that  child  which  is  the  father  of  the  man.  The  charm 
of  his  poetry  consists  often  only  in  an  exceeding  naturalness, 
perfect  sincerity,  with  the  behavior  of  a  child  rather  than  of 
a  man. 

Gentleness  and  delicacy  of  character  are  everywhere 
apparent  in  his  verse.  The  simplest  and  humblest  words 
come  readily  to  his  lips.  No  one  can  read  the  Prioress's  tale, 
understanding  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  written,  and  in  which 
the  child  sings  0  alma  redemptoris  mater,  or  the  account  of 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  277 

the  departure  of  Constance  with  her  child  upon  the  sea,  in 
the  Man  of  Lawe's  tale,  without  feeling  the  native  innocence 
and  refinement  of  the  author.  Nor  can  we  be  mistaken 
respecting  the  essential  purity  of  his  character,  disregarding 
the  apology  of  the  manners  of  the  age.  A  simple  pathos 
and  feminine  gentleness,  which  Wordsworth  only  occasionally 
approaches,  but  does  not  equal,  are  peculiar  to  him.  We  are 
tempted  to  say  that  his  genius  was  feminine,  not  masculine. 
It  was  such  a  feminineness,  however,  as  is  rarest  to  find  in 
woman,  though  not  the  appreciation  of  it ;  perhaps  it  is  not 
to  be  found  at  all  in  woman,  but  is  only  the  feminine  in  man. 

Sure  pure,  and  genuine,  and  childlike  love  of  Nature  is 
hardly  to  be  found  in  any  poet. 

Chaucer's  remarkably  trustful  and  affectionate  character 
appears  in  his  familiar,  yet  innocent  and  reverent,  manner 
of  speaking  of  his  God.  He  comes  into  his  thought  without 
any  false  reverence,  and  with  no  more  parade  than  the 
zephyr  to  his  ear.  If  Nature  is  our  mother,  then  God  is 
our  father.  There  is  less  love  and  simple  practical  trust 
in  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  How  rarely  in  our  English 
tongue  do  we  find  expressed  any  affection  for  God.  Cer- 
tainly, there  is  no  sentiment  so  rare  as  the  love  of  God. 
Herbert  almost  alone  expresses  it,  "  Ah,  my  dear  God !  " 
Our  poet  uses  similar  words  with  propriety,  and  whenever 
he  sees  a  beautiful  person,  or  other  object,  prides  himself  on 
the  "  maistry  M  of  his  God.  He  even  recommends  Dido 
to  be  his  bride,  — 

"if  that  God  that  heaven  and  yearth  made, 

Would  have  a  love  for  beauty  and  goodnesse, 
And  womanhede,  trouth,  and  semeliness." 

But  in  justification  of  our  praise,  we  must  refer  to  his 
works  themselves;  to  the  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury 
Tales,  the  account  of  Gentilesse,  the  Flower  and  the  Leaf, 
the  stories  of  Griselda,  Virginia,  Ariadne,  and  Blanche  the 
Duchesse,  and  much  more  of  less  distinguished  merit.  There 
are  many  poets  of  more  taste  and  better  manners,  who  knew 
how  to  leave  out  their  dulness,  but  such  negative  genius 
cannot  detain  us  long ;  we  shall  return  to  Chaucer  still  with 
love.  Some  natures  which  are  really  rude  and  ill  developed, 
have  yet  a  higher  standard  of  perfection  than  others  which 
are  refined  and  well  balanced.    Even  the  clown  has  taste, 


278  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

whose  dictates,  though  he  disregards  them,  are  higher  and 
purer  than  those  which  the  artist  obeys.  If  we  have  to 
wander  through  many  dull  and  prosaic  passages  in  Chaucer, 
we  have  at  least  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  it  is  not 
an  artificial  dulness,  but  too  easily  matched  by  many  passages 
in  life.  We  confess  that  we  feel  a  disposition  commonly 
to  concentrate  sweets,  and  accumulate  pleasures,  but  the 
poet  may  be  presumed  always  to  speak  as  a  traveller,  who 
leads  us  through  a  varied  scenery,  from  one  eminence  to 
another,  and  it  is,  perhaps,  more  pleasing,  after  all,  to  meet 
with  a  fine  thought  in  its  natural  setting.  Surely  fate  has 
enshrined  it  in  these  circumstances  for  some  end.  Nature 
strews  her  nuts  and  flowers  broadcast,  and  never  collects 
them  into  heaps.  This  was  the  soil  it  grew  in,  and  this  the 
hour  it  bloomed  in;  if  sun,  wind,  and  rain  came  here  to 
cherish  and  expand  the  flower,  shall  not  we  come  here  to 
pluck  it? 

A  true  poem  is  distinguished  not  so  much  by  a  felicitous 
expression,  or  any  thought  it  suggests,  as  by  the  atmosphere 
which  surrounds  it.  Most  have  beauty  of  outline  merely, 
and  are  striking  as  the  form  and  bearing  of  a  stranger,  but 
true  verses  come  toward  us  indistinctly,  as  the  very  breath 
of  all  friendliness,  and  envelop  us  in  their  spirit  and  fragrance. 
Much  of  our  poetry  has  the  very  best  manners,  but  no  char- 
acter. It  is  only  an  unusual  precision  and  elasticity  of  speech, 
as  if  its  author  had  taken,  not  an  intoxicating  draught,  but 
an  electuary.  It  has  the  distinct  outline  of  sculpture,  and 
chronicles  an  early  hour.  Under  the  influence  of  passion 
all  men  speak  thus  distinctly,  but  wrath  is  not  always  divine. 

There  are  two  classes  of  men  called  poets.  The  one 
cultivates  life,  the  other  art,  —  one  seeks  food  for  nutriment, 
the  other  for  flavor ;  one  satisfies  hunger,  the  other  gratifies 
the  palate.  There  are  two  kinds  of  writing,  both  great  and 
rare ;  one  that  of  genius,  or  the  inspired,  the  other  of  intellect 
and  taste,  in  the  intervals  of  inspiration.  The  former  is 
above  criticism,  always  correct,  giving  the  law  to  criticism. 
It  vibrates  and  pulsates  with  life  forever,  ut  is  sacred,  and 
to  be  read  with  reverence,  as  the  works  of  nature  are  studied^ 
There  are  few  instances  of  a  sustained  style  of  this  kind ; 
perhaps  every  man  has  spoken  words,  but  the  speaker  is 
then  careless  of  the  record.  Such  a  style  removes  us  out 
of  personal  relations  with  its  author,  we  do  not  take  his 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  279 

words  on  our  lips,  but  his  sense  into  our  hearts.  It  is  the 
stream  of  inspiration,  which  bubbles  out,  now  here,  now 
there,  now  in  this  man,  now  in  that.  It  matters  not  through 
what  ice-crystals  it  is  seen,  now  a  fountain,  now  the  ocean 
stream  running  under  ground.  It  is  in  Shakespeare,  Al- 
pheus,  in  Burns,  Arethuse ;  but  ever  the  same.  —  The  other 
is  self-possessed  and  wise.  It  is  reverent  of  genius,  and  greedy 
of  inspiration.  It  is  conscious  in  the  highest  and  the  least 
degree.  It  consists  with  the  most  perfect  command  of  the 
faculties.  It  dwells  in  a  repose  as  of  the  desert,  and  objects 
are  as  distinct  in  it  as  oases  or  palms  in  the  horizon  of  sand. 
The  train  of  thought  moves  with  subdued  and  measured 
step,  like  a  caravan.  But  the  pen  is  only  an  instrument  in 
its  hand,  and  not  instinct  with  life,  like  a  longer  arm.  It 
leaves  a  thin  varnish  or  glaze  over  all  its  work.  The  works 
of  Goethe  furnish  remarkable  instances  of  the  latter. 

There  is  no  just  and  serene  criticism  as  yet.  -Nothing 
is  considered  simply  as  it  lies  in  the  lap  of  eternal  beauty,  but 
our  thoughts,  as  well  as  our  bodies,  must  be  dressed  after 
the  latest  fashions.'  Our  taste  is  too  delicate  and  particular. 
It  says  nay  to  the  poet's  work,  but  never  yea  to  his  hope. 
It  invites  him  to  adorn  his  deformities,  and  not  to  cast  them 
off  by  expansion,  as  the  tree  its  bark.  We  are  a  people  who 
live  in  a  bright  light,  in  houses  of  pearl  and  porcelain,  and 
drink  only  light  wines,  whose  teeth  are  easily  set  on  edge  by 
the  least  natural  sour.  If  we  had  been  consulted,  the  back- 
bone of  the  earth  would  have  been  made,  not  of  granite, 
but  of  Bristol  spar.  A  modern  author  would  have  died  in 
infancy  in  a  ruder  age.  But  the  poet  is  something  more  than 
a  scald,  "  a  smoother  and  polisher  of  language ;  "  he  is  a  Cin- 
cinnatus  in  literature,  and  occupies  no  west  end  of  the  world. 
Like  the  sun,  he  will  indifferently  select  his  rhymes,  and  with 
a  liberal  taste  weave  into  his  verse  the  planet  and  the  stubble. 

In  these  old  books  the  stucco  has  long  since  crumbled 
away,  and  we  read  what  was  sculptured  in  the  granite. 
They  are  rude  and  massive  in  their  proportions,  rather  than 
smooth  and  delicate  in  their  finish.  The  workers  in  stone 
polish  only  their  chimney  ornaments,  but  their  pyramids 
are  roughly  done.  There  is  a  soberness  in  a  rough  aspect, 
as  of  unhewn  granite,  which  addresses  a  depth  in  us,  but  a 
polished  surface  hits  only  the  ball  of  the  eye.  The  true 
finish  is  the  work  of  time  and  the  use  to  which  a  thing  is 


280  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

put.  The  elements  are  still  polishing  the  pyramids.  Art 
may  varnish  and  gild,  but  it  can  do  no  more.  A  work  of 
genius  is  rough-hewn  from  the  first,  because  it  anticipates 
the  lapse  of  time,  and  has  an  ingrained  polish,  which  still 
appears  when  fragments  are  broken  off,  an  essential  quality 
of  its  substance.  Its  beauty  is  at  the  same  time  its  strength, 
and  it  breaks  with  a  lustre. 

The  great  poem  must  have  the  stamp  of  greatness  as  well 
as  its  essence.  The  reader  easily  goes  within  the  shallowest 
contemporary  poetry,  and  informs  it  with  all  the  life  and 
promise  of  the  day,  as  the  pilgrim  goes  within  the  temple, 
and  hears  the  faintest  strains  of  the  worshippers;  but  it 
will  have  to  speak  to  posterity,  traversing  these  deserts, 
through  the  ruins  of  its  outmost  walls,  by  the  grandeur  and 
beauty  of  its  proportions. 


But  here  on  the  stream  of  the  Concord,  where  we  have  all 
the  while  been  bodily,  Nature,  who  is  superior  to  all  styles 
and  ages,  is  now,  with  pensive  face,  composing  her  poem 
Autumn,  with  which  no  work  of  man  will  bear  to  be  com- 
pared. 

In  summer  we  live  out  of  doors,  and  have  only  impulses 
and  feelings,  which  are  all  for  action,  and  must  wait  commonly 
for  the  stillness  and  longer  nights  of  autumn  and  winter 
before  any  thought  will  subside ;  we  are  sensible  that  behind 
the  rustling  leaves,  and  the  stacks  of  grain,  and  the  bare 
clusters  of  the  grape,  there  is  the  field  of  a  wholly  new  life, 
which  no  man  has  lived ;  that  even  this  earth  was  made  for 
more  mysterious  and  nobler  inhabitants  than  men  and 
women.  In  the  hues  of  October  sunsets,  we  see  the  portals 
to  other  mansions  than  those  which  we  occupy,  not  far  off 
geographically.  — 

"There  is  a  place  beyond  that  flaming  hill, 

From  whence  the  stars  their  thin  appearance  shed, 
A  place  beyond  all  place,  where  never  ill, 
Nor  impure  thought  was  ever  harbored." 

Sometimes  a  mortal  feels  in  himself  Nature,  not  his  Father 
but  his  Mother  stirs  within  him,  and  he  becomes  immortal 
with  her  immortality.  From  time  to  time  she  claims  kindred- 
ship  with  us,  and  some  globule  from  her  veins  steals  up  into 
our  own. 


AND   MERRIMACK  RIVERS  281 

I  am  the  autumnal  sun, 
With  autumn  gales  my  race  is  run ; 
When  will  the  hazel  put  forth  its  flowers, 
Or  the  grape  ripen  under  my  bowers? 
When  will  the  harvest  or  the  hunter's  moon, 
Turn  my  mid-night  into  mid-noon? 

I  am  all  sere  and  yellow, 

And  to  my  core  mellow. 
The  mast  is  dropping  within  my  woods, 
The  winter  is  lurking  within  my  moods, 
And  the  rustling  of  the  withered  leaf 
Is  the  constant  music  of  my  grief. 

To  an  unskilful  rhymer  the  Muse  thus  spoke  in  prose :  — 

The  moon  no  longer  reflects  the  day,  but  rises  to  her 
absolute  rule,  and  the  husbandman  and  hunter  acknowledge 
her  for  their  mistress.  Asters  and  golden-rods  reign  along 
the  way,  and  the  life-ever-lasting  withers  not.  The  fields 
are  reaped  and  shorn  of  their  pride,  but  an  inward  verdure 
still  crowns  them.  The  thistle  scatters  its  down  on  the  pool, 
and  yellow  leaves  clothe  the  vine,  and  naught  disturbs  the 
serious  life  of  men.  But  behind  the  sheaves,  and  under  the 
sod,  there  lurks  a  ripe  fruit,  which  the  reapers  have  not 
gathered,  the  true  harvest  of  the  year,  which  it  bears  for  ever, 
annually  watering  and  maturing  it,  and  man  never  severs 
the  stalk  which  bears  this  palatable  fruit. 

Men  nowhere,  east  or  west,  live  yet  a  natural  life,  round 
which  the  vine  clings,  and  which  the  elm  willingly  shadows. 
Man  would  desecrate  it  by  his  touch,  and  so  the  beauty  of 
the  world  remains  veiled  to  him.  He  needs  not  only  to  be 
spiritualized,  but  naturalized,  on  the  soil  of  earth.  Who 
shall  conceive  what  kind  of  roof  the  heavens  might  extend 
over  him,  what  seasons  minister  to  him,  and  what  employ- 
ment dignify  his  life!  Only  the  convalescent  raise  the  veil 
of  nature.  An  immortality  in  his  life  would  confer  immor- 
tality on  his  abode.  The  winds  should  be  his  breath,  the 
seasons  his  moods,  and  he  should  impart  of  his  serenity  to 
Nature  herself.  But  such  as  we  know  him  he  is  ephemeral 
like  the  scenery  that  surrounds  him,  and  does  not  aspire 
to  an  enduring  existence.  When  we  come  down  into  the 
distant  village,  visible  from  the  mountain  top,  the  nobler 
inhabitants  with  whom  we  peopled  it  have  departed,  and  left 


282  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

only  vermin  in  its  desolate  streets.  It  is  the  imagination 
of  poets  which  puts  those  brave  speeches  into  the  mouths  of 
their  heroes.    They  may  feign  that  Cato's  last  words  were 

"The  earth,  the  air,  and  seas  I  know,  and  all 
The  joys  and  horrors  of  their  peace  and  wars ; 
And  now  will  view  the  Gods'  state  and  the  stars," 

but  such  are  not  the  thoughts  nor  the  destiny  of  common 
men.  What  is  this  heaven  which  they  expect,  if  it  is  no  better 
than  they  expect?  Are  they  prepared  for  a  better  than 
they  can  now  imagine?    Here  or  nowhere  is  our  heaven. — 

"Although  we  see  celestial  bodies  move 
Above  the  earth,  the  earth  we  till  and  love." 

We  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  fair  than  something  which 
we  have  experienced.  "  The  remembrance  of  youth  is 
a  sigh."  We  linger  in  manhood  to  tell  the  dreams  of  our 
childhood,  and  they  are  half  forgotten  ere  we  have  learned 
the  language.  We  have  need  to  be  earth-born  as  well  as 
heaven-born,  y^yem?,  as  was  said  of  the  Titans  of  old, 
or  in  a  better  sense  than  they.  There  have  been  heroes 
for  whom  this  world  seemed  expressly  prepared,  as  if  creation 
had  at  last  succeeded;  whose  daily  life  was  the  stuff  of 
which  our  dreams  are  made,  and  whose  presence  enhanced 
the  beauty  and  ampleness  of  Nature  herself.  Where  they 
walked, 

"Largior  hie  campos  aether  et  lumine  vestit 
Purpureo  :  Solemque  suum,  sua  sidera  norunt." 

"  Here  a  more  copious  air  invests  the  fields,  and  clothes  with 
purple  light;  and  they  know  their  own  sun  and  their  own 
stars."  We  love  to  hear  some  men  speak,  though  we  hear 
not  what  they  say ;  the  very  air  they  breathe  is  rich  and  per- 
fumed, and  the  sound  of  their  voices  falls  on  the  ear  like  the 
rustling  of  leaves  or  the  crackling  of  the  fire.  They  stand 
many  deep.  They  have  the  heavens  for  their  abettors,  as 
those  who  have  never  stood  from  under  them,  and  they  look 
at  the  stars  with  an  answering  ray.  Their  eyes  are  like 
glow-worms,  and  their  motions  graceful  and  flowing,  as  if 
a  place  were  already  found  for  them,  like  rivers  flowing 
through  valleys.  The  distinctions  of  morality,  of  right 
and  wrong,  sense  and  nonsense,  are  petty,  and  have  lost  their 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  283 

significance,  beside  these  pure  primeval  natures.  When 
I  consider  the  clouds  stretched  in  stupendous  masses  across 
the  sky,  frowning  with  darkness,  or  glowing  with  downy 
light,  or  gilded  with  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  like  the 
battlements  of  a  city  in  the  heavens,  their  grandeur  appears 
thrown  away  on  the  meanness  of  my  employment;  the 
drapery  is  altogether  too  rich  for  such  poor  acting.  I  am 
hardly  worthy  to  be  a  suburban  dweller  outside  those  walls. 

"  Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man!" 

With  our  music  we  would  fain  challenge  transiently  another 
and  finer  sort  of  intercourse  than  our  daily  toil  permits. 
The  strains  come  back  to  us  amended  in  the  echo,  as  when  a 
friend  reads  our  verse.  Why  have  they  so  painted  the  fruits, 
and  freighted  them  with  such  fragrances  as  to  satisfy  a  more 
than  animal  appetite? 

"I  asked  the  schoolman,  his  advice  was  free, 
But  scored  me  out  too  intricate  a  way." 

These  things  imply,  perchance,  that  we  live  on  the  verge  of 
another  and  purer  realm,  from  which  these  odors  and  sounds 
are  wafted  over  to  us.  The  borders  of  our  plot  are  set  with 
flowers,  whose  seeds  were  blown  from  more  Elysian  fields 
adjacent.  They  are  the  pot-herbs  of  the  gods.  Some 
fairer  fruits  and  sweeter  fragrances  wafted  over  to  us,  betray 
another  realm's  vicinity.  There,  too,  does  Echo  dwell, 
and  there  is  the  abutment  of  the  rainbow's  arch. 

A  finer  race  and  finer  fed 
Feast  and  revel  o'er  our  head, 
And  we  titmen  are  only  able 
To  catch  the  fragments  from  their  table. 
Theirs  is  the  fragrance  of  the  fruits, 
While  we  consume  the  pulp  and  roots. 
What  are  the  moments  that  we  stand 
Astonished  on  the  Olympian  land ! 

We  need  pray  for  no  higher  heaven  than  the  pure  senses  can 
furnish,  a  purely  sensuous  life.  Our  present  senses  are  but 
the  rudiments  of  what  they  are  destined  to  become.  We  are 
comparatively  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind,  and  without  smell 
or  taste  or  feeling.    Every  generation  makes  the  discovery, 


284  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

that  its  divine  vigor  has  been  dissipated,  and  each  sense  and 
faculty  misapplied  and  debauched.  The  ears  were  made, 
not  for  such  trivial  uses  as  men  are  wont  to  suppose,  but  to 
hear  celestial  sounds.  The  eyes  were  not  made  for  such 
grovelling  uses  as  they  are  now  put  to  and  worn  out  by,  but 
to  behold  beauty  now  invisible.  May  we  not  see  God?  Are 
we  to  be  put  off  and  amused  in  this  life,  as  it  were  with  a  mere 
allegory?  Is  not  Nature,  rightly  read,  that  of  which  she  is 
commonly  taken  to  be  the  symbol  merely?  When  the 
common  man  looks  into  the  sky,  which  he  has  not  so  much 
profaned,  he  thinks  it  less  gross  than  the  earth,  and  with 
reverence  speaks  of  "  the  Heavens,"  but  the  seer  will  in  the 
same  sense  speak  of  "  the  Earths,"  and  his  Father  who 
is  in  them.  "  Did  not  he  that  made  that  which  is  within, 
make  that  which  is  without  also?"  What  is  it,  then,  to 
educate  but  to  develop  these  divine  germs  called  the  senses? 
for  individuals  and  states  to  deal  magnanimously  with  the 
rising  generation,  leading  it  not  into  temptation,  —  not 
teach  the  eye  to  squint,  nor  attune  the  ear  to  profanity? 
But  where  is  the  instructed  teacher?  Where  are  the  normal 
schools? 

A  Hindoo  sage  said,  "  As  a  dancer  having  exhibited  herself 
to  the  spectator,  desists  from  the  dance,  so  does  Nature 
desist,  having  manifested  herself  to  soul.  —  Nothing,  in 
my  opinion,  is  more  gentle  than  Nature;  once  aware  of 
having  been  seen,  she  does  not  again  expose  herself  to  the 
gaze  of  soul." 

It  is  easier  to  discover  another  such  a  new  world  as  Colum- 
bus did,  than  to  go  within  one  fold  of  this  which  we  appear 
to  know  so  well ;  the  land  is  lost  sight  of,  the  compass  varies, 
and  mankind  mutiny;  and  still  history  accumulates  like 
rubbish  before  the  portals  of  nature.  But  there  is  only 
necessary  a  moment's  sanity  and  sound  senses,  to  teach 
us  that  there  is  a  nature  behind  the  ordinary,  in  which  we 
have  only  some  vague  preemption  right  and  western  reserve 
as  yet.  We  live  on  the  outskirts  of  that  region.  Carved 
wood,  and  floating  boughs,  and  sunset  skies,  are  all  that 
we  know  of  it.  We  are  not  to  be  imposed  on  by  the  longest 
spell  of  weather.  Let  us  not,  my  friends,  be  wheedled  and 
cheated  into  good  behavior  to  earn  the  salt  of  our  eternal 
porridge,  whoever  they  are  that  attempt  it.    Let  us  wait 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  285 

a  little,  and  not  purchase  any  clearing  here,  trusting  that 
richer  bottoms  will  soon  be  put  up.  It  is  but  thin  soil  where 
we  stand ;  I  have  felt  my  roots  in  a  richer  ere  this.  I  have 
seen  a  bunch  of  violets  in  a  glass  vase,  tied  loosely  with  a 
straw,  which  reminded  me  of  myself.  — 

I  am  a  parcel  of  vain  strivings  tied 
By  a  chance  bond  together, 
Dangling  this  way  and  that,  their  links 
Were  made  so  loose  and  wide, 
Methinks, 
For  milder  weather. 

A  bunch  of  violets  without  their  roots, 
And  sorrel  intermixed, 
Encircled  by  a  wisp  of  straw 
Once  coiled  about  their  shoots, 
The  law 
By  which  I'm  fixed. 

A  nosegay  which  Time  clutched  from  out 
Those  fair  Elysian  fields, 
With  weeds  and  broken  stems,  in  haste, 
Doth  make  the  rabble  rout 
That  waste 
The  day  he  yields. 

And  here  I  bloom  for  a  short  hour  unseen, 
Drinking  my  juices  up, 
With  no  root  in  the  land 
To  keep  my  branches  green, 
But  stand 
In  a  bare  cup. 

Some  tender  buds  were  left  upon  my  stem 
In  mimicry  of  life, 
But  ah !  the  children  will  not  know, 
Till  time  has  withered  them, 
The  wo 
With  which  they're  rife. 

But  now  I  see  I  was  not  plucked  for  naught, 
And  after  in  life's  vase 
Of  glass  set  while  I  might  survive, 
But  by  a  kind  hand  brought 
Alive 
To  a  strange  place. 


286  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

That  stock  thus  thinned  will  soon  redeem  its  hours, 
And  by  another  year, 
Such  as  God  knows,  with  freer  air, 
More  fruits  and  fairer  flowers 
Will  bear, 
While  I  droop  here. 

This  world  has  many  rings,  like  Saturn,  and  we  live  now 
on  the  outmost  of  them  all.  None  can  say  deliberately  that 
he  inhabits  the  same  sphere,  or  is  contemporary  with,  the 
flower  which  his  hands  have  plucked,  and  though  his  feet 
may  seem  to  crush  it,  inconceivable  spaces  and  ages  separate 
them,  and  perchance  there  is  no  danger  that  he  will  hurt  it. 
What  after  all  do  the  botanists  know?  Our  lives  should  go 
between  the  lichen  and  the  bark.  The  eye  may  see  for  the 
hand,  but  not  for  the  mind.  We  are  still  being  born,  and 
have  as  yet  but  a  dim  vision  of  sea  and  land,  sun,  moon  and 
stars,  and  shall  not  see  clearly  till  after  nine  days  at  least. 
That  is  a  pathetic  inquiry  among  travellers  and  geographers 
after  the  sight  of  ancient  Troy.  It  is  not  near  where  they 
think  it  is.  When  a  thing  is  decayed  and  gone,  how  indis- 
tinct must  be  the  place  it  occupied ! 

The  anecdotes  of  modern  astronomy  affect  me  in  the  same 
way  as  do  those  faint  revelations  of  the  Real  which  are 
vouchsafed  to  men  from  time  to  time,  or  rather  from  eternity 
to  eternity.  When  I  remember  the  history  of  that  faint 
light  in  our  firmament,  which  we  call  Venus,  which  ancient 
men  regarded,  and  which  most  modern  men  still  regard,  as 
a  bright  spark  attached  to  a  hollow  sphere  revolving  about 
our  earth,  but  which  we  have  discovered  to  be  another  world 
in  itself,  —  how  Copernicus,  reasoning  long  and  patiently 
about  the  matter,  predicted  confidently  concerning  it,  before 
yet  the  telescope  had  been  invented,  that  if  ever  men  came 
to  see  it  more  clearly  than  they  did  then,  they  would  discover 
that  it  had  phases  like  our  moon,  and  that  within  a  century 
after  his  death  the  telescope  was  invented,  and  that  pre- 
diction verified,  by  Galileo,  —  I  am  not  without  hope  that 
we  may,  even  here  and  now,  obtain  some  accurate  infor- 
mation concerning  that  Other  World  which  the  instinct 
of  mankind  has  so  long  predicted.  Indeed,  all  that  we 
call  science,  as  well  as  all  that  we  call  poetry,  is  a  particle 
of  such  information,  accurate  as  far  as  it  goes,  though  it  be 
but  to  the  confines  of  the  truth.    If  we  can  reason  so  ac- 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  287 

curately,  and  with  such  wonderful  confirmation  of  our 
reasoning,  respecting  so-called  material  objects  and  events 
infinitely  removed  beyond  the  range  of  our  natural  vision, 
so  that  the  mind  hesitates  to  trust  its  calculations  even 
when  they  are  confirmed  by  observation,  why  may  not  our 
speculations  penetrate  as  far  into  the  immaterial  starry  system, 
of  which  the  former  is  but  the  outward  and  visible  type? 
Surely,  we  are  provided  with  senses  as  well  fitted  to  penetrate 
the  spaces  of  the  real,  the  substantial,  the  eternal,  as  these 
outward  are  to  penetrate  the  material  universe.  Veias, 
Menu,  Zoroaster,  Socrates,  Christ,  Shakespeare,  Swedenborg, 
—  these  are  some  of  our  astronomers. 

There  are  perturbations  in  our  orbits  produced  by  the 
influence  of  outlying  spheres,  and  no  astronomer  has  ever 
yet  calculated  the  elements  of  that  undiscovered  world 
which  produces  them.  I  perceive  in  the  common  train  of 
my  thoughts  a  natural  and  uninterrupted  sequence,  each  im- 
plying the  next,  or,  if  interruption  occurs  it  is  occasioned  by 
a  new  object  being  presented  to  my  senses.  But  a  steep, 
and  sudden,  and  by  these  means  unaccountable  transition, 
is  that  from  a  comparatively  narrow  and  partial,  what  is 
called  common  sense  view  of  things,  to  an  infinitely  expanded 
and  liberating  one,  from  seeing  things  as  men  describe  them, 
to  seeing  them  as  men  cannot  describe  them.  This  implies 
a  sense  which  is  not  common,  but  rare  in  the  wisest  man's 
experience  ;  which  is  sensible  or  sentient  of  more  than 
common. 

In  what  inclosures  does  the  astronomer  loiter!  His  skies 
are  shoal;  and  imagination,  like  a  thirsty  traveller,  pants 
to  be  through  their  desert.  The  roving  mind  impatiently 
bursts  the  fetters  of  astronomical  orbits,  like  cobwebs  in  a 
corner  of  its  universe,  and  launches  itself  to  where  distance 
fails  to  follow,  and  law,  such  as  science  has  discovered, 
grows  weak  and  weary.  The  mind  knows  a  distance  and  a 
space  of  which  all  those  sums  combined  do  not  make  a  unit 
of  measure,  —  the  interval  between  that  which  appears 
and  that  which  is.  I  know  that  there  are  many  stars,  I  know 
that  they  are  far  enough  off,  bright  enough,  steady  enough 
in  their  orbits,  —  but  what  are  they  all  worth?  They  are 
more  waste  land  in  the  West,  —  star  territory,  —  to  be 
made  slave  States,  perchance,  if  we  colonize  them.  I 
have  interest  but  for  six  feet  of  star,  and  that  interest  is 


288  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

transient.  Then  farewell  to  all  ye  bodies,  such  as  I  have 
known  ye. 

Every  man,  if  he  is  wise,  will  stand  on  such  bottom  as 
will  sustain  him,  and  if  one  gravitates  downward  more 
strongly  than  another,  he  will  not  venture  on  those  meads 
where  the  latter  walks  securely,  but  rather  leave  the  cran- 
berries which  grow  there  unraked  by  himself.  Perchance, 
some  spring'a  higher  freshet  will  float  them  within  his  reach, 
though  they  may  be  watery  and  frost-bitten  by  that  time. 
Such  shrivelled  berries  I  have  seen  in  many  a  poor  man's 
garret,  aye,  in  many  a  church  bin  and  state  coffer,  and  with 
a  little  water  and  heat  they  swell  again  to  their  original  size 
and  fairness,  and  added  sugar  enough,  stead  mankind  for 
sauce  to  this  world's  dish. 

What  is  called  common  sense  is  excellent  in  its  department, 
and  as  invaluable  as  the  virtue  of  conformity  in  the  army 
and  navy,  —  for  there  must  be  subordination,  —  but  un- 
common sense,  that  sense  which  is  common  only  to  the  wisest, 
is  as  much  more  excellent  as  it  is  more  rare.  Some  aspire 
to  excellence  in  the  subordinate  department,  and  may  God 
speed  them.  What  Fuller  says  of  masters  of  colleges  is 
universally  applicable,  that  "  a  little  alloy  of  dulness  in 
a  master  of  a  college  makes  him  fitter  to  manage  secular 
affairs." 

"He  that  wants  faith,  and  apprehends  a  grief 
Because  he  wants  it,  hath  a  true  belief ; 
And  he  that  grieves  because  his  grief  's  so  small, 
Has  a  true  grief,  and  the  best  Faith  of  all." 

Or  be  encouraged  by  this  other  poet's  strain. 

"By  them  went  Fido  marshal  of  the  field: 

Weak  was  his  mother  when  she  gave  him  day ; 
And  he  at  first  a  sick  and  weakly  child, 

As  e'er  with  tears  welcomed  the  sunny  ray ; 

Yet  when  more  years  afford  more  growth  and  might, 
A  champion  stout  he  was,  and  puissant  knight, 
As  ever  came  in  field,  or  shone  in  armor  bright. 

"  Mountains  he  flings  in  seas  with  mighty  hand ; 

Stops  and  turns  back  the  sun's  impetuous  course ; 
Nature  breaks  Nature's  laws  at  his  command ; 
No  force  of  Hell  or  Heaven  withstands  his  force ; 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  289 

Events  to  come  yet  many  ages  hence, 
He  present  makes,  by  wondrous  prescience ; 
Proving  the  senses  blind  by  being  blind  to  sense." 

"  Yesterday,  at  dawn,"  says  Hafiz,  "  God  delivered  me  from 
all  worldly  affliction;  and  amidst  the  gloom  of  night  pre- 
sented me  with  the  water  of  immortality." 

In  the  life  of  Sadi  by  Dowlat  Shah,  occurs  this  sentence. 
"  The  eagle  of  the  immaterial  soul  of  Shaikh  Sadi  shook 
from  his  plumage  the  dust  of  his  body." 

Thus  thoughtfully  we  were  rowing  homeward  to  find  some 
autumnal  work  to  do,  and  help  on  the  revolution  of  the 
seasons.  Perhaps  Nature  would  condescend  to  make  use 
of  us  even  without  our  knowledge,  as  when  we  help  to  scatter 
her  seeds  in  our  walks,  and  carry  burrs  and  cockles  on  our 
clothes  from  field  to  field. 

All  things  are  current  found 
On  earthly  ground, 
Spirits  and  elements 
Have  their  descents. 

Night  and  day,  year  on  year, 
High  and  low,  far  and  near, 
These  are  our  own  aspects, 
These  are  our  own  regrets. 

Ye  gods  of  the  shore, 
Who  abide  evermore, 
I  see  your  far  headland, 
Stretching  on  either  hand ; 

I  hear  the  sweet  evening  sounds 
From  your  undecaying  grounds ; 
Cheat  me  no  more  with  time, 
Take  me  to  your  clime. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  afternoon,  and  we  rowed  leisurely 
up  the  gentle  stream,  shut  in  between  fragrant  and  blooming 
banks,  where  we  had  first  pitched  our  tent,  and  drew  nearer 
to  the  fields  where  our  lives  had  passed,  we  seemed  to  detect 
the  hues  of  our  native  sky  in  the  south-west  horizon.  The 
sun  was  just  setting  behind  the  edge  of  a  wooded  hill,  so  rich 


290  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

a  sunset  as  would  never  have  ended  but  for  some  reason  un- 
known to  men,  and  to  be  marked  with  brighter  colors  than 
ordinary  in  the  scroll  of  time.  Though  the  shadows  of  the 
hills  were  beginning  to  steal  over  the  stream,  the  whole  river 
valley  undulated  with  mild  light,  purer  and  more  memorable 
than  the  noon.  For  so  day  bids  farewell  even  to  solitary 
vales  uninhabited  by  man.  Two  blue-herons,  ardea  herodias, 
with  their  long  and  slender  limbs  relieved  against  the  sky, 
were  seen  travelling  high  over  our  heads,  —  their  lofty  and 
silent  flight,  as  they  were  wending  their  way  at  evening, 
surely  not  to  alight  in  any  marsh  on  the  earth's  surface 
but,  perchance,  on  the  other  side  of  our  atmosphere,  a  symbol 
for  the  ages  to  study,  whether  impressed  upon  the  sky,  or 
sculptured  amid  the  hieroglyphics  of  Egypt.  Bound  to 
some  northern  meadow,  they  held  on  their  stately,  stationary 
flight,  like  the  storks  in  the  picture,  and  disappeared  at  length 
behind  the  clouds.  Dense  flocks  of  blackbirds  were  winging 
their  way  along  the  river's  course,  as  if  on  a  short  evening 
pilgrimage  to  some  shrine  of  theirs,  or  to  celebrate  so  fair 
a  sunset. 

"Therefore,  as  doth  the  pilgrim,  whom  the  night 

Hastes  darkly  to  imprison  on  his  way, 

Think  on  thy  home,  my  soul,  and  think  aright 

Of  what 's  yet  left  thee  of  life's  wasting  day : 

Thy  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  morn, 

And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  born." 

The  sun-setting  presumed  all  men  at  leisure  and  in  a  con- 
templative mood;  but  the  farmer's  boy  only  whistled  the 
more  thoughtfully  as  he  drove  his  cows  home  from  pasture, 
and  the  teamster  refrained  from  cracking  his  whip,  and  guided 
his  team  with  a  subdued  voice.  The  last  vestiges  of  daylight 
at  length  disappeared,  and  as  we  rowed  silently  along  with 
our  backs  toward  home  through  the  darkness,  only  a  few 
stars  being  visible,  we  had  little  to  say,  but  sat  absorbed  in 
thought,  or  in  silence  listened  to  the  monotonous  sound  of 
our  oars,  a  sort  of  rudimental  music,  suitable  for  the  ear  of 
Night  and  the  acoustics  of  her  dimly  lighted  halls ; 

"Pulsae  referunt  ad  sidera  valles," 

and  the  valleys  echoed  the  sound  to  the  stars. 
As  we  looked  up  in  silence  to  those  distant  lights,  we  were 


AND  MERRIMACK  RIVERS  291 

reminded  that  it  was  a  rare  imagination  which  first  taught 
that  the  stars  are  worlds,  and  had  conferred  a  great  benefit 
on  mankind.  It  is  recorded  in  the  Chronicle  of  Bernaldez, 
that  in  Columbus's  first  voyage  the  natives  "  pointed  towards 
the  heavens,  making  signs  that  they  believed  that  there  was 
all  power  and  holiness."  We  have  reason  to  be  grateful  for 
celestial  phenomena,  for  they  chiefly  answer  to  the  ideal  in 
man.  The  stars  are  distant  and  unobtrusive,  but  bright 
and  enduring  as  our  fairest  and  most  memorable  experiences. 
"  Let  the  immortal  depth  of  your  soul  lead  you,  but  earnestly 
extend  your  eyes  upwards." 

As  the  truest  society  approaches  always  nearer  to  solitude, 
so  the  most  excellent  speech  finally  falls  into  Silence.  Silence 
is  audible  to  all  men,  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places.  She  is 
when  we  hear  inwardly,  sound  when  we  hear  outwardly. 
Creation  has  not  displaced  her,  but  is  her  visible  framework 
and  foil.  All  sounds  are  her  servants  and  purveyors,  pro- 
claiming not  only  that  their  mistress  is,  but  is  a  rare  mistress, 
and  earnestly  to  be  sought  after.  They  are  so  far  akin  to 
Silence,  that  they  are  but  bubbles  on  her  surface,  which 
straightway  burst,  an  evidence  of  the  strength  and  prolific- 
ness  of  the  under-current ;  a  faint  utterance  of  silence,  and 
then  only  agreeable  to  our  auditory  nerves  when  they  contrast 
themselves  with  and  relieve  the  former.  In  proportion  as 
they  do  this,  and  are  heighteners  and  intensifiers  of  the 
Silence,  they  are  harmony  and  purest  melody. 

Silence  is  the  universal  refuge,  the  sequel  to  all  dull  dis- 
courses and  all  foolish  acts,  a  balm  to  our  every  chagrin, 
as  welcome  after  satiety  as  after  disappointment;  that 
background  which  the  painter  may  not  daub,  be  he  master 
or  bungler,  and  which,  however  awkward  a  figure  we  may 
have  made  in  the  foreground,  remains  ever  our  inviolable 
asylum,  where  no  indignity  can  assail,  no  personality  dis- 
turb us. 

The  orator  puts  off  his  individuality,  and  is  then  most 
eloquent  when  most  silent.  He  listens  while  he  speaks,  and 
is  a  hearer  along  with  his  audience.  Who  has  not  hearkened 
to  Her  infinite  din?  She  is  Truth's  speaking  trumpet,  the 
sole  oracle,  the  true  Delphi  and  Dodona,  which  kings  and 
courtiers  would  do  well  to  consult,  nor  will  they  be  balked 
by  an  ambiguous  answer.    For  through  Her  all  revelations 


292  A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD 

have  been  made,  and  just  in  proportion  as  men  have  con- 
sulted her  oracle  within,  they  have  obtained  a  clear  insight, 
and  their  age  has  been  marked  as  an  enlightened  one.  But  as 
often  as  they  have  gone  gadding  abroad  to  a  strange  Delphi 
and  her  mad  priestess,  their  age  has  been  dark  and  leaden. 
Such  were  garrulous  and  noisy  eras,  which  no  longer  yield 
any  sound,  but  the  Grecian  or  silent  and  melodious  era  is 
ever  sounding  and  resounding  in  the  ears  of  men. 

A  good  book  is  the  plectrum  with  which  our  else  silent 
lyres  are  struck.  We  not  unfrequently  refer  the  interest 
which  belongs  to  our  own  unwritten  sequel,  to  the  written 
and  comparatively  lifeless  body  of  the  work.  Of  all  books 
this  sequel  is  the  most  indispensable  part.  It  should  be 
the  author's  aim  to  say  once  and  emphatically,  "  He  said," 
"  *4>y}"  This  is  the  most  the  bookmaker  can  attain  to. 
If  he  make  his  volume  a  mole  whereon  the  waves  of  Silence 
may  break,  it  is  well. 

It  were  vain  for  me  to  endeavor  to  interpret  the  Silence. 
She  cannot  be  done  into  English.  For  six  thousand  years 
men  have  translated  her  with  what  fidelity  belonged  to  each, 
and  still  she  is  little  better  than  a  sealed  book.  A  man  may 
run  on  confidently  for  a  time,  thinking  he  has  her  under  his 
thumb,  and  shall  one  day  exhaust  her,  but  he  too  must  at 
last  be  silent,  and  men  remark  only  how  brave  a  beginning 
he  made,"  for  when  he  at  length  dives  into  her,  so  vast  is 
the  disproportion  of  the  told  to  the  untold,  that  the  former 
will  seem  but  the  bubble  on  the  surface  where  he  disappeared. 
Nevertheless,  we  will  go  on,  like  those  Chinese  cliff  swallows, 
feathering  our  nests  with  the  froth  which  may  one  day  be 
bread  of  life  to  such  as  dwell  by  the  seashore. 

We  had  made  about  fifty  miles  this  day  with  sail  and  oar, 
and  now,  far  in  the  evening,  our  boat  was  grating  against 
the  bulrushes  of  its  native  port,  and  its  keel  recognized  the 
Concord  mud,  where  some  semblance  of  its  outline  was  still 
preserved  in  the  flattened  flags  which  had  scarce  yet  erected 
themselves  since  our  departure;  and  we  leaped  gladly  on 
shore,  drawing  it  up,  and  fastening  it  to  the  wild  apple  tree, 
whose  stem  still  bore  the  mark  which  its  chain  had  worn  in 
the  chafing  of  the  spring  freshets. 


THE  MODERN 
STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

Each  volume  edited  with  an  introduction  by  a  leading 

American  authority 

WILL  D.  HOWE,  General  Editor 

This  series  is  composed  of  such  works  as  are  conspicuous  in  the 
province  of  literature  for  their  enduring  influence.  Every  volume 
is  recognized  as  essential  to  a  liberal  education  and  will  tend  to  in- 
fuse a  love  for  true  literature  and  an  appreciation  of  the  qualities 
which  cause  it  to  endure. 


A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD  AND 

MERRIMAC  RIVERS 

By  Henry  David  Thoreatj 

With  an  Introduction  by 
ODELL  SHEPARD 

Professor  of  English  at  Trinity  College 

"...  Here  was  a  man  who  stood  with  his  head  in  the  clouds, 
perhaps,  but  with  his  feet  firmly  planted  on  rubble  and  grit.  He 
was  true  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home.  Thoreau's 
eminently  practical  thought  was  really  concerned,  in  the  last  anal- 
ysis with  definite  human  problems.  The  major  question  how  to  live 
was  at  the  end  of  all  his  vistas." 

EMERSON'S  ESSAYS 

Selected  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
ARTHUR  HOBSON  QUINN 

Professor  of  English  and  Dean  of  the  College  University  of 
Pennsylvania 

!  Among  the  shifting  values  in  our  literary  history,  Emerson  stands 
secure.  As  a  people  we  are  rather  prone  to  underestimate  our  native 
writers  in  relation  to  English  and  continental  authors,  but  even 
among  those  who  have  been  content  to  treat  our  literature  as  a  by- 
product of  British  letters,  Emerson's  significance  has  become  only 
more  apparent  with  time." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

THE  ESSAYS  OF 
ADDISON  AND  STEELE 

Selected  and  edited  by 
WILL  D.  HOWE 

Professor  of  English  at  Indiana  University 

With  the  writings  of  these  two  remarkable  essayists  modern  prose 
began.  It  is  not  merely  that  their  style  even  to-day,  after  two  cen- 
turies, commands  attention,  it  is  equally  noteworthy  that  these 
men  were  among  the  first  to  show  the  possibilities  of  our  language 
in  developing  a  reading  public. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  AND 
JONATHAN  EDWARDS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
CARL  VAN  DOREN 

Franklin  and  Edwards  often  sharply  contrasted  in  thought  are, 
however,  in  the  main,  complimentary  to  each  other.  In  religion, 
Franklin  was  the  utilitarian,  Edwards  the  mystic.  Franklin  was 
more  interested  in  practical  morality  than  in  revelation;  Edwards 
sought  a  spiritual  exaltation  in  religious  ecstasy.  In  science  Frank- 
lin was  the  practical  experimenter,  Edwards  the  detached  observer, 
the  theoretical  investigator  of  causes. 

THE 
HEART  OF  MIDLOTHIAN 

By  Sir  Walter  Scott 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  P.  TRENT 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 

Universally  admitted  one  of  the  world's  greatest  story-tellers, 
Scott  himself  considered  "The  Heart  of  Midlothian"  his  master- 
piece, and  it  has  been  accepted  as  such  by  most  of  his  admirers. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENTS  LIBRARY 

THE  ORDEAL  OF 
RICHARD  FEVEREL 

By  George  Meredith 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FRANK  W.  CHANDLER 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Cincinnati 

"The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel,"  published  in  1859,  was  Mere- 
dith's first  modern  novel  and  probably  his  best.  Certainly  it  was, 
and  has  remained,  the  most  generally  popular  of  all  this  author's 
books  and  among  the  works  of  its  type  it  stands  pre-eminent.  The 
story  embodies  in  the  most  beautiful  form  the  idea  that  in  life  the 
whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth  is  best. 

MEREDITH'S 
ESSAY  ON  COMEDY 

With  an  Introduction,  Notes,  and  Biographical  Sketch  by 
LANE  COOPER 

Professor  of  English  at  Cornell  University 

"Good  comedies,"  Meredith  tells  us,  "are  such  rare  productions 
that,  notwithstanding  the  wealth  of  our  literature  in  the  comic 
element,  it  would  not  occupy  us  long  to  run  over  the  English  list." 

The  "Essay  on  Comedy"  is  in  a  peculiarly  intimate  way  the  ex- 
position of  Meredith's  attitude  toward  life  and  art.  It  helps  us  to 
understand  more  adequately  the  subtle  delicacies  of  his  novels. 

CRITICAL  ESSAYS  OF  THE 
NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

Selected  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by 
RAYMOND  M.  ALDEN 

Professor  of  English  at  Leland  Stanford  University 

The  essays  in  this  volume  include  those  of  Wordsworth,  Copleston, 
Jeffrey,  Scott,  Coleridge,  Lockhart,  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  Byron,  Shelley, 
Newman,  DeQuincey,  Macaulay,  Wilson,  and  Hunt. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

ENGLISH  POETS  OF  THE 
EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 

Selected  and  Edited  by 
ERNEST  BERNBAUM 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Illinois 

The  great  age  of  the  eighteenth  century  is,  more  than  any  other, 
perhaps,  mirrored  in  its  poetry,  and  this  anthology  reveals  its  man- 
ners and  ideals. 

While  the  text  of  the  various  poems  is  authentic,  it  is  not  bur- 
dened with  scholastic  editing  and  marginal  comment.  The  collec- 
tion and  its  form  is  one  which  satisfies  in  an  unusual  way  the  in- 
terest of  the  general  reader  as  well  as  that  of  the  specialist. 

PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS 
By  John  Bunyan 

With  an  Introduction  and  Notes  by 
DR.  S.  M.  CROTHERS 

This  book  is  one  of  the  most  vivid  and  entertaining  in  the  English 
language,  one  that  has  been  read  more  than  any  other  in  our  lan- 
guage, except  the  Bible. 

PRIDE  AND  PREJUDICE 
By  Jane  Austen 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

To  have  this  masterpiece  of  realistic  literature  introduced  by  so 
eminent  a  critic  as  William  Dean  Howells  is,  in  itself,  an  event  in 
the  literary  world.  We  cannot  better  comment  upon  the  edition 
than  by  quoting  from  Mr.  Howells's  introduction: 

He  says:  "When  I  came  to  read  the  book  the  tenth  or  fifteenth 
time  for  the  purposes  of  this  introduction,  I  found  it  as  fresh  as  when 
I  read  it  first  in  1889,  after  long  shying  off  from  it." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

NINETEENTH  CENTURY 
LETTERS 

Selected  and  Edited  by 
BYRON  JOHNSON  REES 

Professor  of  English  at  Williams  College 

Contains  letters  from  William  Blake,  William  Wordsworth, 
Sydney  Smith,  Robert  Southey,  Charles  Lamb,  Washington  Irving, 
Benjamin  Robert  Haydon,  John  Keats,  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle,  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson,  John  Sterling,  Abraham  Lincoln,  William  Make- 
peace Thackeray,  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  Matthew  Arnold, 
Thomas  Henry  Huxley,  George  Meredith,  "Lewis  Carroll,"  Phillips 
Brooks,  Sidney  Lanier,  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


PAST  AND  PRESENT 

By  Thomas  Carlyle 

With  an  Introduction  by 
EDWIN  W.  MIMS 

Professor  of  English  at  Vanderbilt  University 

"Past  and  Present,"  written  in  1843,  when  the  industrial  revolu- 
tions had  just  taken  place  in  England  and  when  democracy  and 
freedom  were  the  watchwords  of  liberals  and  progressives,  reads  like 
a  contemporary  volume  on  industrial  and  social  problems. 

BOSWELL'S 
LIFE  OF  JOHNSON 

Abridged  and  edited,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes,  by 
CHARLES  G.  OSGOOD 

Professor  of  English  at  Princeton  University 

Bos  well  has  created  one  of  the  great  masterpieces  of  the  world. 

Seldom  has  an  abridgment  been  made  with  as  great  skill  in  omit- 
ting nothing  vital  and  keeping  proper  proportions  as  this  edition  by 
Professor  Osgood. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


BACON'S  ESSAYS 

Selected,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes,  by 
MARY  AUGUSTA  SCOTT 

Late  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Smith  College 

These  essays,  the  distilled  wisdom  of  a  great  observer  upon  the 
affairs  of  common  life,  are  of  endless  interest  and  profit.  The  more 
one  reads  them  the  more  remarkable  seem  their  compactness  and 
their  vitality. 


ADAM  BEDE 

By  George  Eliot 

With  an  Introduction  by 
LAURA  J.  WYLIE 

Professor  of  English  at  Vassar  College 

With  the  publication  of  "Adam  Bede"  in  1859,  it  was  evident 
both  to  England  and  America  that  a  great  novelist  had  appeared. 
"Adam  Bede"  is  the  most  natural  of  George  Eliot's  books,  simple 
in  problem,  direct  in  action,  with  the  freshness  and  strength  of  the 
Derbyshire  landscape  and  character  and  speech  in  its  pages. 


THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK 

By  Robert  Browning 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FREDERICK  MORGAN  PADELFORD 

Professor  of  English  at  Washington  University 

*'  'The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  "  says  Dr.  Padelford  in  his  introduc- 
tion, "is  Browning's  supreme  literary  achievement.  It  was  written 
after  the  poet  had  attained  complete  mastery  of  his  very  individual 
style;  it  absorbed  his  creative  activity  for  a  prolonged  period;  and  it 
issued  with  the  stamp  of  his  characteristic  genius  on  every  page." 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON'S 
ESSAYS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 

Professor  of  English  at  Yale  University 

This  volume  includes  not  only  essays  in  formal  literary  criticism, 
but  also  of  personal  monologue  and  gossip,  as  well  as  philosophical 
essays  on  the  greatest  themes  that  can  occupy  the  mind  of  man.  All 
reveal  the  complex,  whimsical,  humorous,  romantic,  imaginative, 
puritanical  personality  now  known  everywhere  by  the  formula 
R.  L.  S. 

PENDENNIS 
By  Thackeray 

With  an  Introduction  by 
ROBERT  MORSS  LOVETT 

Professor  of  English  at  the  University  of  Chicago 

"Pendennis"  stands  as  a  great  representative  of  biographical 
fiction  and  reflects  more  of  the  details  of  Thackeray's  life  than  all 
his  other  writings.  Of  its  kind  there  is  probably  no  more  interesting 
book  in  our  literature. 

THE 
RETURN  OF  THE  NATIVE 

By  Thomas  Hardy 

With  an  Introduction  and  Notes  by 
JOHN  W.  CUNLIFFE 

Professor  of  English  at  Columbia  University 

"The  Return  of  the  Native"  is  probably  Thomas  Hardy's  great 
tragic  masterpiece.  It  carries  to  the  highest  perfection  the  rare 
genius  of  the  finished  writer.  It  presents  in  the  most  remarkable 
way  Hardy's  interpretation  of  nature  in  which  there  is  a  perfect 
unison  between  the  physical  world  and  the  human  character. 


THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

RUSKIN'S 
SELECTIONS  AND  ESSAYS 

With  an  Introduction  by 
FREDERICK  WILLIAM  ROE 

Assistant  Professor  of  English  at  University  of  Wisconsin 

"Ruskin,"  said  John  Stuart  Mill,  "was  one  of  the  few  men  in 
Europe  who  seemed  to  draw  what  he  said  from  a  source  within  him- 
self." Carlyle  delighted  in  the  "fierce  lightning  bolts"  that  Ruskin 
was  "copiously  and  desperately  pouring  into  the  black  world  of 
anarchy  all  around  him." 

The  present  volume,  by  its  wide  selection  from  Ruskin's  writings, 
affords  an  unusual  insight  into  this  remarkable  man's  interests  and 
character. 

THE  SCARLET  LETTER 
By  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

With  an  Introduction  by 
STUART  P.  SHERMAN 

Professor  of  English  at  University  of  Illinois 

"  'The  Scarlet  Letter'  appears  to  be  as  safe  from  competitors 
as  'Pilgrim's  Progress'  or  'Robinson  Crusoe.'  It  is  recognized  as 
the  classical  treatment  of  its  particular  theme.  Its  symbols  and 
scenes  of  guilt  and  penitence — the  red  letter  on  the  breast  of  Hester 
Prynne,  Arthur  Dimmesdale  on  the  scaffold — have  fixed  themselves 
in  the  memory  of  men  like  the  figure  of  Crusoe  bending  over  the 
footprints  in  the  sand,  and  have  become  a  part  of  the  common  stock 
of  images  like  Christian  facing  the  lions  in  the  way. 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recalL 


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